Untitled story

They gather where the wounded bleed,

where rotting roots become the seed,

where dying things begin to stink,

and desperate minds forget to think.

Pale little bodies, soft and blind,

crawl through the carcass left behind.

They feast upon the flesh that’s torn,

then praise the corpse for what it’s worn.

“Make it great, make it again,”they chant beneath a crimson den.

Red upon their heads they wear,

while claiming rot was always there.

“America first,” the maggots cry,

as another piece of freedom dies.

They chew through bone and call it pride,

then blame the wound they crawled inside.

Some feed on fear. Some feast on shame.

Some turn division into flame.

Some dress their hunger up as right,

Some call the darkness holy light.

They swear the corpse belongs to them,

that every fracture is a gem.

They polish slogans, praise the stain,

and call the sickness strength again.

But maggots never heal the dead.

They only gorge where blood has bled.

They cannot build what they consume,

they only make more fucking room

for rot to spread from bone to bone,

until the carcass stands alone.

And when there’s nothing left to eat,

they’ll crawl away on trembling feet.

For that is all that maggots know:

to find the wound and make it grow.

To feast upon what once was whole,

then call the ruin “saving souls.”

So let them chant beneath their hats,

let them praise the flag and rats.

Let them swear the rot is gold,

and worship stories growing old.

A maggot’s purpose, so they say,

is cleaning death and rot away.

But there’s a difference, buried deep:

A maggot cleans what death has claimed.

A movement feeds until it’s maimed.

And when the final bone is bare,

when nothing living lingers there,

perhaps they’ll finally understand:

You cannot make a country great

by feeding on its wounded land.