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
