06 Dec 2015 – Sonnet
What value’s victory if torn in twain?
Would you create a hell where you can rule?
A heaven you can serve brings blunt disdain?
You’ll claim a sceptor, never be a tool?
Now compromise is called a traitors path.
The founding fathers work has been forsworn
while bellows fan the heat and flames of wrath,
and mercy’s now contemptible and scorned.
Who profits from the strident pompousness
of pundits demonizing others views,
the public space a foul necropolis
where none appear ashamed of bile they spew?
Sweet victory! Our boast when all is lost?
Is being right worth all that it will cost?