by Earl David Freeland
I weep.
The king didn’t take the throne.
The elephant knelt—
tuskless,
trumpeting fear,
its weight crushing the roots
of a nation it once carried.
Palms open,
backs bent,
offering the crown
wrapped in fear,
cheap flags for bows.
Will there be midterms?
Will it matter?
When power hums the same note,
ballots dusted under a golden sneaker,
lines redrawn to cut out the noise—
cut out us.
Maps don’t divide now.
They silence.
States, neat and obedient,
stacked under a crown.
What world waits for my son?
A place where truth
gets dragged—
hair tangled in fists,
paraded like a lesson.
Freedom?
Traded for chain-slick comfort.
Easy.
Cheap.
The anthem plays.
Hands rise—
not for hearts.
I see it—
the Mouth of Putin,
slick, wide, laughing.
Spitting out slogans,
black seeds rooting into
boots,
barbed wire,
burned books.
Long live the king,
they say.
And mean it.
I weep.
But I’m watching.
And if democracy dies here—
I’ll bury it with teeth.
Bared.
Fists raw.
Tear the ground open
and dig through the bones
the elephant left behind
Earl David Freeland is a mathematician, former cartographer, and teacher whose poetry balances precision with raw vulnerability. His work explores societal critique, existential themes, and human complexity with unflinching honesty. His poems have appeared in Poets Reading the News and reflect a deliberate rejection of polish in favor of visceral authenticity.
