by Joseph Coleman

Created on: February 08, 2010

I dream of a beautiful day

As America bathes in the bright Tuesday air, something comes.

We were the seeds of old flowers, with a bolder vision of the world.

We saw things fresh, for a new way.

The old world never looked out their windows.

The window defies the broader vision that portrays the people’s lives.

Upstarts, we were called; ruffians of juvenile neglect, from the cast of rebels!

Patriots, yes, and rebels, yes, for our own cause.

We looked through the glass, and saw the flaws of the real world.

We saw that wondrous hope that people can live with their own freedom,

and survive each other’s weaknesses.

We didn’t wish to go into the world, to see the world.

We had already seen what their real world can do to free people.

We sought, not to be the voyeur, but to be watched for what we do,

instead of being enslaved, for what we can’t do.

The ponderous seas make the ears slow to know;

so we chart our own course loud, so they may hear us!

None of the wise eyes of the world can tell us what we should know.

The young ruffian takes the mind to his elders,

for they have been here for mere ages.

He knows what flaw to reject.

It is his Horse that now stands in his own stable.

History spreads our blanket; it is for us to find the comfort.

There is no perfection in men; they all make the mistakes.

We made ours, with prejudice, against the perceived lesser man.

We were wrong, but we sought to make it right; therein, lies the difference.

Open the doors of opportunity, and hordes of good will come.

We were such an enlightened few, struggling with our own goodness.

The pledge was such that none could break the small, without breaking it all.

The true cycle of freedom is just that perfect wing, to make people fly.

In the clearing of ‘a beautiful day’, the fog shifts across the veil, into the breeze.

A fog comes to speak; the new one hears, but he is not listening.

In the sluggish, morning mind, a strange and different word comes.

It speaks of the evil before us.

Then it drifts away, slowly, into the breaks of the shore that we adore.

A little mind’s delay, then it preyed on all the frills of their legitimate slight of hand.

While the new one creeps, America sleeps the slumber of the innocents.

His ideas don't blend with our God.

Their God has lerad the few away from their book of ages.

They come to kill, and America sleeps in the sun of 'a beautiful day'.

Moments count down in the blue skies of America.

We are about to be shaken from our state, drenched in our own blood for, simply, being.

Our crime is not to be good; it is for who we were then!

From out of the sand, come the worms of long ago.

There dreams are of wicked beasts, who crumble beneath their own weight.

The ancient ages, blessed to their God, they still follow the stones.

Time has not been seen by them, they humble in their walk.

They don’t show their feet, but we’ll suck on the toes,

to get what we want, from our byzantine talk.

You see, we know best, how you should live;

look what we’ve done to your world of sand and Camels.

"Why do they hate us?" we seem so unknowing.

Haven't we listened to our own speaking.

We have pet names for all those who like us.

We do not respect our enemies enough, to win.

With our shield of arrogance, we can drop a load, and come home.

They now come, and we don't see their only way to fight us.

From the coward's bush, they conceal their surprise.

And America does not see their wretched surprise.

Beneath the slumbering wake, it is such 'a beautiful day'.

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