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A Debate

While the indifferent ocean buries
our dead deep
Or in the soil, shallow enough for
blistered bare feet
Or rather flames, ashen souls for
the random wind
Yes, while we live our demise and
mortal sin
Our leaders cynically accuse each
and the other
The royals who spin and then
entirely smother
The truth that never lived a day
in voice or print
And if it existed, to a conspiring grave
it was so sent
So help me God, is it our souls fate
and tender
That Brute axed the Ides of March
and rendered
Caesar unto all of us; mere coin
in pocket
While a savior finally told Gabriel,
"Go ahead, blow it"