The bends in the road,
Parallel to the more mischievous
Parts of my reflection in the mirror.

Those curves and corkscrews,
Whose patterned parts
Are undiscovered countries;
Thirsty for the rains
Of America.

Greedy as sin,
Sweeping up the larger portion;
Portfolio perfected by the flood,
And my old man’s camp
Squeezing out libations
Into the bowls of Baal.

Purple mountains
Marking the dawn,
Of latter day sinners;
Who go on trusting
In their god of wealth,
Affluence and power,

While the war for Heaven
Unfolds before our eyes.


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