Deah Caldwell Poetry

Saddle up your horses boys,
and sound the drums of war.
Lady Liberty’s concierge bell
is off beat to the fascists’ score.
Her hand is being forced down
from her torch to her hip to draw.
Pretty soon she’ll no longer be a beacon,
but the Wild Wests’ most notorious outlaw.
They’ll plaster her face in photos
most wanted and preferably dead.
But queens who truly love their people
don’t let crowns slip from their heads.
For it is her mark of honor–
a maternal sign to welcome and protect.
Upright and stoic in all her glory,
she has no room to bow and defect.
If she’s forced to put her torch down
so she can free her other hand,
you won’t find a lady standing there,
but a vigilante under her own command.
Behind her you’ll see a people–
her militia who are willing do die
for an idea of freedom and glory;
for every last ounce of human rights.
And, it very well might happen
as she lays down that fiery torch,
she will intentionally set nationalism ablaze,
knowing purification comes from a scorch.