Tomorrow, the calendar turns a heavy page, Forty years since the yellow ribbons frayed. But the streets stay quiet, the asphalt cold, Just an ordinary Wednesday for the young and old. The "Spirit of '86" is a ghost in the hall, While the veterans who carried it wither and fall— Bless their hearts, they are slipping away, Taking the fire of the barricade to the clay. Ideally , the scales would be balanced and true, But the ghosts of the recent are coming into view. As the ICC gathers its papers and pleas, To weigh out the blood of the "War" on its knees, I think of the word—that hopeful "Ideally"— Spoken by Bam while the truth settles wearily. Justice is a harvest we never quite reap, While the guardians of order are buried or asleep. Ideally , the screen would be a mirror, not a mask, But the giants grew quiet when taken to task. Six years since the signal at Ignacia went dead, The bold...
Deep media musings and other things I care.