This Land

Don’t believe in a land that hardly was
Won’t ever be in the hands of the deceived
Given back nothing, nothing received
All is taken, not mistakenly
The imperfection of what is to be
I swear on this book that what land there was
Has not been and better is not to be
The imperfection of humanity
The only redemption left for me
Left here on earth, bereft of vision
Measurements of linear time
And a sense of self-derision
That was the calm bridge above rough waters
Upon the hill and highway, nearly collapsing.

Posted in Poetry

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