As Tyranny Ambled

The new old normal ambles down the aisle
while we who shouted down its second stride,
some of us turn to beds to wake, to smile,
but dreams are coming, death and tax aside.
From where I hid, beneath, a trumpet raised,
our bodies, to be perfect, after All,
depending on selective doctrine praised,
now deck the trees, with merry ethanol.
Believe me: I won’t feel the killing blow,
won’t know it hung above us by a thread.
What lies above, what waits for us below,
exists in memories not of the dead.
My tenure, breathing shortly, til the end,
might not be real, but this is not pretend.