Waco Poem by diane allen

little waco is on the map of the
consciousness of america. validated
by a wacko fanatic whose followers,
those lost sheep of humanity,
follow blindly he who is blinded,
but not by any light of god.

he is waiting for a sign from god,
say news reports each day, as we
hang on to every televised report,
wondering if guyana-like he leads
his flock away from light and into
the shadow of the prince of darkness.
and parting words of 'god made me do
do it', do little to dispel the notion
that nobody believes in such a god.
not even in waco, texas.

and spectacle-like the press surround
the tanks that circle a place that's
called the 'compound'. said to have
food stockpiled to last a siege of months
and arms stong enough to embrace the
federal agents for just as long.
but strong enough to hold his gentle
flock from going over the edge of reason
and plunging downward onto printed pages,
forever spirits without rest,
historically speaking?

and the cult experts will postulate
the reasons for the cause and the
meaning of the effect. the folks in
waco will speak of this for years to come,
long after the ruts in the dust
made by the tanks, fill in from rain and
dried from sun, are scattered
by the wind blowing bored
over the landscape.

*written in 1993