At A Funeral For Mimes.

At a funeral for mimes.

 

There is next to nothing said,
when one attends a funeral for mimes,
only the hands gesture in all the
usual sympathetic ways,
whether steepled in prayer,
clasped in grief,
offering embraces,
or wiping tears
from saddened faces.
Many hands pushing against
the walls of sorrow
and finding little escape.
White faces marred by eyes
mascara'd into black smears
for their weeping.
Much like the way the
silent majority mourns,
in many soundless
screams of rages,
at the daily newsprint pages.
Some huddled in small groups
around long boxes,
that contain silenced sons,
fathers, and loved ones,
who followed the few
misinformed, and often
blank looked
words of reason given,
for the many movements they took,
to secure free dumb,
for the King Of Dumbya.
Now they must bury
their most precious
mimes who are lost forever,
while the mime families gather
to shake their heads,
and mourn in quiet grace.
For speaking out
is a narcotic
you see,
I am addicted
and I needle
the public often
offering liquid angst
interjected into the
heart of the bullshit
Damn them all
I am getting my Jones
while the powers that be
declare such actions unpatriotic.
It is a bitter pill,
and some sour swill to swallow,
but lately little
is said against me.
Meanwhile many more mimes will die,
in desert lands even as I speak.
Iraqi, and American puppets
killed by the very people,
they are seeking to save,
people who barbarically have been
killing each other for thousands of years
and now add US to the mix
as a speechless president,
offers little in words,
and much useless action,
that leave so many,
once outspoken souls
stunned into silence.
As we approached 2,400 

and we now approach 4,500 and counting

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~©-MFB III