Election Day



Light rain falls from the leaden skies
As the slaves proceed to the hall.
No light shines in their languid eyes.
They mark their X, and that is all.

They take their leave, having been polled.
A sick one falls; they file past her.
They can do no more: they’re controlled.
But soon they’ll have a new master!

Enjoy The Beacon? Help us inspire ideas on liberty with a tax-deductible contribution!
Comments
We invite your civil and thoughtful comments. The use of profanity or derogatory language may result in a ban on your ability to comment again in the future.