The Raven of the Republic

In Trump's America this Halloween Week: A Fresh Take On Edgar Allen Poe's Bird, The Narrator's Despair, And Our Future

By David Shuster

Once upon a term infernal, through a midnight dark, nocturnal,
While I watched the news external, trembling at Trump’s fresh uproar—
While I pondered, weak and weary, over the state of freedom’s theory,
Suddenly there came a query, echoing through the chamber door—
“Is this justice still?” I whispered, staring through that oaken door—
Answer came: “Not anymore.”

Ah, distinctly I remember, through that bleak and cursed November,
When the votes, as dying embers, flickered faintly—counted sore.
Each decree grew more despotic, every dawn more chaotic,
And the courts, once proud and stoic, bowed before Trump’s gilded floor—
Bowed before his wrath and bluster, where he trampled oath and lore—
Law lay bleeding—evermore.

Then from every screen and station came a torrent of dictation,
“Fake!” he cried at truth’s foundation, “Only I define what’s sure!”
And his flock, in blind elation, hailed his lies as revelation,
While the facts of every nation sank beneath his dark rapport—
Reason drowned in endless echo, lost beneath his fevered roar—
Sanity—forevermore.

And the traitors once convicted, those whose hands the law restricted,
Found their pardon unrestricted—“Patriots!” he called their score.
From their crimes he made confession into twisted proud procession,
Blessed rebellion’s old transgression, swore their sins would count no more—
Thus the oath of justice shattered on the Capitol’s old floor—
Freedom dying—evermore.

Tariffs raged like storms unending, markets broke with no amending,
Farmers wept, their prayers ascending to an empty marble floor.
“Great again!” Trump thundered, lying, as the factories fell, dying,
While economists were sighing, “This makes no one rich but war.”
But the echo of his madness filled the sky forevermore—
Truth degraded—evermore.

Then the borders groaned in sorrow—families torn, no bright tomorrow,
Children vanished, hearts grown hollow, cast beyond the nation’s shore.
“Law is mine!” he cried, deriding, all due process now subsiding,
And the guards, ashamed, abiding, turned away from what they saw—
As the weeping met the silence of a Constitution’s flaw—
Mercy broken—evermore.

To the East Wing came his hammer—tearing marble, hurling clamor,
Saying, “History’s dead glamour—tear it down, it’s mine once more!”
So the halls of truth and reason fell to vanity’s imprecision
While the portraits, each derision, burned beside his golden door.
Lincoln’s shade stood silent weeping on that desecrated floor—
Union trembling—evermore.

Then without consent or warning, in a blood red tropic morning,
Bombs fell down, the ships adorning seas where peace had been before.
“Cartel boats!” he cried, elated, “I alone have terminated!”
Congress left un-consultated—law defied, as oft before.
And the world looked on in horror at this tyrant’s private war—
Honor buried—evermore.

And the Raven, black and knowing, perched upon the flag now showing,
Watched the republic’s embers glowing faintly through corruption’s door.
From his eyes fell sparks of warning, lighting graves where truth lay mourning,
While the tyrant, ever scorning, smirked and bragged his false encore:
“Are we lost?” I cried, imploring, “Can this land be what it swore?”
Quote the Raven: “Nevermore.”

Yet beneath that word of sorrow, whispered hope for some tomorrow,
Rose from hearts too brave to borrow silence from the tyrant’s lore.
In the streets they gathered, pleading, for the truth the nation’s needing—
Swore their love of justice, bleeding, would outlast the despot’s war.
And the Raven took his shadow, soaring toward the sun once more—
Freedom rising—Evermore.