The White Moderate

I hope you’re choking on the coal runoff in your cool, trickling streams.

When shots ring out from the bell tower, I beg your child clutches his chest.

On sand-caked knees, in trenches dug deep,

May the enemy’s unforgiving bullet find your sweet love.

I pray that the purple mountain’s majesty becomes an avalanche that buries you deep.

Oh, for you to be sliced open, like a middle school dissection

All jagged edges and exposed pickled entrails

who’s intentions were pure.

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