The Remnant
T.A. Hokama
The beautiful flag flaps high and proud,
the only bright splash of color
against a sky stained dark with sin.
Beneath these roiling, looming clouds,
the children of the world march—
each of their sluggish steps
a caricature,
a mockery
of the once-vibrant heartbeat
that filled this planet with life.
No life rests here now;
what life could survive?
The blood of the world has been exchanged for oil,
sold and disposed of
without a moment’s thought
or care.
Rivers run black
and burn beneath the glare of a dying sun;
a weeping sun,
grieving for its loss.
And metal jungles,
sprouted from the seeds of so-called ‘necessity,’
spread their steel tangles skyward;
consume the air,
consume the earth.
Among the sad and desolate expanses
of these wasted marvels
march the children of the world—
each of their tired and heavy steps
sounding out the surrender
that they should have sought
long ago.
The mighty strength of glass and iron
has faded at last,
succumbed to the dying pulse
that carries the earth
past yet another unnecessary year.
And still, that mocking, cheerful flag
floats gently upon the breeze,
a bright emblem of debauchery
which wears the guise of righteousness.
The lifeblood of the new millennium,
the cherished privilege
of the formerly downtrodden;
the ability to warp,
to twist,
to manipulate the mind:
the gift of our generation.
Righteousness sinks into obscurity
as the lies rise into monarchy,
dominion,
dictatorship.
We are the generation
who claims to welcome
those who speak their mind,
those who are oppressed,
those who are outcast:
those who are different.
And yet how different are we
from those who came before?
Exchanging light for dark,
female for male,
alike for different.
Oppression is a cycle,
and we are its mindless perpetrators.
That laughing, dancing flag
sways high above
a world decimated
by the unwillingness to change—
an irony, that such a symbol
should be the only remnant
of the generation
who claimed
to know
better.
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