The Gray Age

Someone must raise up
the last bugle
and blow taps
or some other somber note
to call the sad passing
of honor in our time.

They finally won,
The gold guided statesmen,
the perverted preachers,
and all the others
who sold out so very cheap,
they even surprised each other,
thinking that somebody else
would carry the load.

Weep!
For none great are left
(or almost not a one)
Because no more men
will come
among us
with granite in their soul
to lead,
with distant stars
as guides.

Their bones grow cold
and forgotten
in their present places,
under consecrated dirt
or ocean's thunder wave.

As the last note
echoes
and the last flag
is folded
(mere threads),
we will mutter
among ourselves 
how it will 
all soon be better
(for God is good}
and this new age
is merely temporary
(for God is merciful).
Even though all the lights 
are burning out.
It must somehow
be for the very best
(why us).

The children still shout
in the streets
as before.
but their beautiful dream
is stolen
and they will always live 
in a shattered land
where only the flies
are brave.