Dark Age Rally

How boldly they step forward
into the twilit streets,
naked in their ignorance
and blindfolded with perfumed gossamers
of propaganda,
screaming loudly
like town criers
slurring an anthem
whose words they understand
not, their voices drunk on
feeling
but deprived of meaning—
like waterlogged, rusted music boxes
playing war songs
to proclaim their riotous joy
in their
benighted prospects.
Living in their own personal
dark age
they cast their shadows forth
to swarm the candlelight of humanism
with the raven cloak of
superstition,
ethnocentrism,
misoneism,
quilting together their rabid, rabbling multitude
of darkling souls
like Stygian shades
to form a fabric
stuffed with the shorn wool
from among their fleeced ranks
to bind the heavy pillow
upon which a weathered, hoary head
unfurls its restless nightmares
and beneath which they
suffocate the
American Dream
as she shivers and fades
upon the sickbed
of Nationalism.

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