History Repeats - Dead Poets Still Speak
Contributed by Katherine Baker
Forming words, though no sound was heard,
the screams inside the people were.
In apprehension of the night,
There came a strange and deranged flight.
A winding, blood-soaked, rut-filled road,
with miles of stumbled, fallen loads.
The ghost of 'What Is Real' tread by,
deep hollows where there once were eyes.
His teeth were pressed together hard,
no breath arose from the barren bard.
Whose soul had dared to live his voice,
those words, the world, did not rejoice.
Isolated, surrounded by,
redefined, and narrative lies.
Activists, Party favorites,
organized and orchestrated.
Death's mind game trail he sadly strides,
his dazed stupor could not subside.
Free countries ruined-his tongue must tell,
those secret playbook games of hell.
Fake shadowy humanities,
and masquerades of sanity.
Constant noises of confusion,
giving credence to delusion.
Severe strategies and tactics,
extreme cruelties and theatrics.
They slew the bard when tanks rolled in,
for holding truth above their din.
Though canceled-hushed was not achieved,
the voice of the bard was long believed.
All those watching and those cheering,
had a victim for their jeering.
Caring not, as death was nearing,
but would they care, or be concerned...
If they had known their hate returned,
and they, themselves, in flames were burned?
Reach from the grave, surfaced the ground,
unshrouded, uncontained, unbound.
His slain, silenced truth EVER tells,
We've seen before, these Soviet hells.