The Weight on Our Chest

 

The weight on my chest
has a weight on its chest,
resting on an anvil,
chained to an anchor,
being pulled under the
current in oceans of familiar
outrage.

 

The long waited shoe,
dropping, is a combat boot,
across the backside of the
weakest among us,
again. A familiar swift kick,
as unoriginal as always,
yet somehow always a surprise.

 

We were ready for it,
we knew it was coming,
at least the weight of
anticipation has dissipated
slightly, like a throbbing migraine,
dissolving slowly in darkened
rooms.

 

It has come,
aggravating the senses
into a dizzying carnival of
emotions, spinning outrageously,
dervishes of destruction
unbent in devotion to
prevarication and dishonesties.

 

We know what is next,
what will have to be done
to preserve Democracy against
the tyrannical will of a profoundly
stupid narcissist. A shameful
history generations will have to
bear.

 

The weight is colossal,
and makes it hard to breath,
it makes it hard to give voice
for the voiceless;
Because that weight,
is the weight of us all,
and all of us, can bear it,
breathing together.

 

We, the people,
we will endure,
we will resist,
we will be on the right side
of history.