Generations past run their elections.

We hear their pointless, empty stories.

We hear them fight and feign affection.

Generations past tell of their mighty glories.

Step in the house of white and bask in tempers and passion.

Let them love you then smother you.

Sense of ambitions, they see you in the highest of fashion.

Let fly the colors, release your hue.

Hate them, berate them, condemn them to time.

Why would you or I or he or she remember the aisle borders?

Shoulder to shoulder, eye to eye, forget all the anger, this pointless rhyme.

Poems and politics these are all lies, but bow to their whims, requests, and orders.

For what else could be made of the past?

Everyone must fight, breathe in, and outlast.

© 2014 Jared "I.J" Steinberg. All Rights Reserved.

#poetry