They walk in shadows, all teeth and flags,
with laughter that sounds like thunder and war.
Every smile a weapon, every dream, branded,
wrapped in plastic, shipped across the ocean.

They sell freedom by the pound,
pour it in glasses of bourbon and oil.
Their gods are young, their sins televised,
their prayers, Wi-Fi signals in the dark.

They speak of peace while polishing their guns,
build walls taller than their faith,
and call it safety.
Call it democracy.
Call it love, even, if it helps them sleep.

But oh, how they dance,
on burning cities, on broken treaties,
on the graves of those who spoke truth too soon.
Still, they dance.
Still, they sing about liberty
like it’s not already bleeding beneath their boots.

And somewhere, a woman watches from her window,
her face lit by the glow of another missile,
and whispers, “So this is what they mean by freedom.”

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Ernest Malimon on Unsplash