amidst the sackcloth and ashes of lies and the battle of ever present whys questioning hands implore the skies shedding tears generations before cried over wrongs buried beneath sighs replayed before unbelieving eyes The oppressor finds it easy to oppress, yet feels deeply wronged when summoned to the throne of distress- feigns righteous indignation for current situations, but would, if self purpose dictated, spit upon the carcasses of those wooed in the courts of coerced resolutions- Power wielded in the name of freedom's reverence becomes the cloaked dagger stuck in the backs of enemies newly baptized as friends. How long will we let this go on? The hymn of revolution is universally sung, at morning fires of devotees without hope; in the tabernacles of hunger it is the only dope. Must the feet of the weary forever trod the winepress for the gain of they who never tend the vine but who sated with the madness of new wine ride rough shod over cries ascended on high their stirrups dipped in floods of fluent blood? I digress- to give thanks and praise to the gods of my bank account, though worshippers are few these days in the pews of stocks and bonds now defunct- In GOD we trust. But can GOD trust us?