echoes of us

The black and white tapestry on my ceiling

paints a subtle reflection

of the personality of my bedroom,

holding the insufferable weight

of millions and millions of stars,

some bright, some dull,

Trapped in a cult

like father, like son.

Bowing down to prejudice,

is this really what won?

The day after the election

all my eyes could pour

were endless tears,

crying hope for no war.