The black and brown shirts,
They had their season.
The reds had several too.
They had their reason.
These are not things
To condone
To aspire to
To be proud of
To easily give way to
But like a cold winter,
Or a forest that burns,
They are the way
That history’s tail turns.
Through good and bad
Towards some end,
So the snake’s head
Can again ascend.
After a hot season of excess,
The serpent coils back around,
Into a cold winter,
To put our feet back on the ground.
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