Hymn Six (Unsung)

What whispered hopes still smolder for a calmer world—no insurgency
by us or the other them—all famine, foreign and domestic, fed—
diseases done—
the poor brought up from gutter shack, back alley
life—these hopes lie not in forked-tongue men, alive or dead.
No election won

can turn back apple-eating, re-plant Eden, dam the flood.
No tv spot, sticker, button, mass-mailer or yard sign can call
us brothers, sisters, one,
and make it so. I am tired, sick and tired, of mud,
hate-polished, flung, slung. There is nothing in government halls
worth the truth—fully spun.

Let hanging chads fall where they may.
Let touch-screen databases be hacked, corrupted.
As a future full-resident,
Joe Citizen of Heaven, here is what I have to say,
let those with ears hear undisrupted,I’m voting Christ for President.

Michael P. Carriger