The patient is in the emergency room. Microbials never seen before threaten the beating heart. Pus everywhere. The wound is abscessed and weeping, monitors bleeping. A miasma of avarice metastasizing and resistant to judicious measures.
The patient is us. Our democracy is on life-support wth I.Vs dripping.
Half
the country is in a comatose state, can’t be bothered or wants to pull the
plug. The other half calls for massive doses of truth, they gather, they shout
down the assassins with an arsenal of adjectives.
The third half, Independants, overwhelmed by the moment, ponders as if two
plus two just might be three or seven. As if the lord high executioner really isn't naked; maybe his clothes will soon come out of the spin cycle at the all-night laundromat.
Someday, the undecided will be studied as a group accomplice in aiding the criminal act which laid to rest our country's heritage.
No hospice, our former Democracy will go to rehab. Can our country be transfused with new blood? I say Yes. Yes to resuscitation. Yes to the healing power of decency, to intelligence and yes to compassion. Sadism, psychosis and junk science have a short half-life. Degeneracy will give way.
When, you ask. There will be a tide.
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