A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.

TRiUMPhant

The prodigal son
Of success,
In extreme,
An automaton,
Of the American dream,
With the loud bluff
Of a powerful nation,
And the puff of proud
Separation made,
A black-smoked conflagration,
The zenith of disintegration,
Snakes its way
From constitutional stockades.
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