Dead Idols


Blessed are the dead,

the quiet and reposed,

resting in the past,

laying down on rows.

Housed in  marble homes,

mausoleum graves,

palaces and ditches,

princesses and slaves.


Memories and dignities,

solemn honors we bestow.

Hang our heads

awhile, then

back to the living we go.

Leave the dead

to themselves.

Don’t disturb their bodies,

this we know.

Feel free to paint

their legacies

with words that these

had never spoke.


The revered

and the feared,

have statues built

in their name.

The memory ,

an elegy,

bearing their deeds and fame.

And we’ll use every one of them

to push our writ today.

Idols of our ideas

and righteousness proclaimed.


Stain that monument.

Tear this one down.

It doesn’t reflect

how we are now.

Destroy this image

for it offends,

my sexuality,

my god,

my friends.


Raise this one higher.

Fifty feet off the ground,

and we’ll see who’s faithful

to our kind, now.

Avert your eyes,

they scythe is coming down.

The dead will show us

how this all plays out.


With guilt and shame,

and blood and flame.

The world will honor who we say

and speak their name.

All fall in line,

or share their fate.

Honor our dead,

the rest

will feed the flames.



HG – 2022

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