Futility

There you are where you were;

Nothing is changed whatsoever.
A futility of fear floods America,
Filled to a frozen despondency.


Cornered under a charcoal sky,
Barred violet and darker gray,
Thundering; sending siren call,
Rumbling and complaining airs,


An endless iteration, a repetition
Of that old same hope; of at last:
This be the time; this be the man,
Echo a looping theme of despair.


Best to sail beneath a black flag,
As pirates all.  Or as a privateer
With letters of mark; loyal only
To the holy brotherhood of Art.