A Passage for a Republic Unraveling

So, I have been reading much poetry of late, Whitman, Poe, Plath, Ginsberg, and their kindred spirits. At the same time, I have been witnessing the melodrama unfolding in our once-great country, and I felt compelled to write the following in the spirit of these poets. Our nation stands in peril, not from enemies without, but from those within.

A Passage for a Republic Unraveling

By Brian Wilson

I sing not of triumphs, not of the sea-wind nor the plow,

not of the railways stretching across the prairie,

nor of the bridges binding one shore to another,

but of a nation folding inward, a republic gnawing its own bones.

O America, I address you

you who once declared liberty on parchment,

you who thundered with voices of orators,

you who bent iron for freedom’s sake,

who sent your sons into fields of battle with liberty as a banner.

Now you stand trembling, your knees buckling beneath your own weight.

The halls of Congress echo not with reason,

but with the clamor of children fighting over scraps,

hurling stones across the aisle,

calling each other traitor, liar, thief.

The chambers grow dusty as debate curdles into insult.

Legislation rots on the vine,

while the roots of democracy thirst in parched ground.

See how the justices, robed in solemn black,

sway like reeds before the gale

each opinion a blade sharpened for party,

each decision a weapon dressed as law.

The Constitution itself quivers on the table,

pages yellowing, ink fading under careless hands.

O citizens! O multitude of fifty states!

Do you not hear the cracking timbers?

Do you not smell the smoke from foundations burning?

For it is not an enemy from afar who comes to conquer,

but the very architects of your city pulling down the walls.

I see governors crowning themselves emperors of counties,

I see senators fanning flames of anger to keep their chairs warm,

I see presidents past and present

scratching at the pillars until the marble splits.

They call it patriotism,

yet the word tastes of rust in the mouth.

And still the people!

bewildered, angry, half-drunk on rhetoric,

clutching flags like idols,

shouting to the skies for saviors,

forgetting that the savior was once the quiet,

shared responsibility of governing ourselves.

Is this the end of democracy?

Not in a single night, not in a coup of drums and boots,

but in the steady erosion,

the termites chewing at the beams,

the daily mockery of rule by the people.

It collapses slowly,

with laughter at the clown show,

with shrugs at corruption,

with silence at cruelty,

with cynicism in place of faith.

O I will not sing only lament!

Even in the ashes, there is breath.

I see young ones gathering in streets,

I hear the low murmur of dissent becoming chorus.

Perhaps democracy does not die,

perhaps it molests itself into coma and must be revived,

perhaps it requires the shock of collapse to remind us

that liberty is not inherited like an heirloom,

but seized, built, defended, renewed.

Still, in this year of our republic, two thousand and twenty five

I bear witness:

the house is on fire,

and its arsonists sit in its parlor smiling,

pouring more oil on the floorboards.

America, O America!

Do not sleep through this burning.

Rise from your bed of comfort,

throw open the windows,

let the smoke sting your eyes awake.

For only those who see the ruin clearly

may yet save the edifice from crumbling entirely.

And I, poet of this hour,

I will not be silent nor bow my head.

I sing my rough, untidy song,

my witness to the unraveling,

my call across the avenues and rivers:

Awake, O Republic, before your last breath escapes!

Awake, O democracy, lest you dissolve into empire!

Awake, O people, and remember your power!