Resurrection City
J. Quinn Brisben
Among the monuments the meek grow mad
With roaring in the skies. The powerful slant
Toward earth to guide and patronize again,
To talk of dead men and ideas. Yet,
The poor hold center stage. The high look down
With blinding fear on something ending now
Or something starting. What's the difference now?
The main man's dead. A bitten world went mad
And foaming. Many prophets were struck down
For truths that did not match the crazy slant
Of lies we've told about ourselves. We've yet
To make a future from a past again
Re-learned, re-wept, re-bled, to be again
Fit dreamers of his dream that haunts us now.
He was too much; we don't deserve him yet.
Perhaps we never will. The crowds were mad
In love with all his words. His laughing slant
Of eyes saw hope for us. He was put down
By small minds only, dull with hate. Go down
To hell my country, never rise again
Until your dark of hating goes and slant
Rays of a loving sun make gold these now
Warped roofs and muddy streets that stink of mad
Defiance. He said we could make it yet.
The fact that we are here shows hope and yet
We do not listen to the speeches. Down
With talk. We've heard it all. This time the mad
Must pick up on the sane. We won't again
Walk peacefully. This world's last chance is now.
So we are here. The stone can't climb the slant
Without old Sisyphus to push. That slant
Is ours, who haven't given up just yet,
Who don't care if the world is ready now
Or not. The power of the word came down
To change us all. So we turn right again,
Cast out the devils in us, save these mad.
Once more one mad revolt against the slant
Of history, again the failure, yet
The struck-down dreamer dreams our glory now.
