(Early) NaPoWriMo #7: The Pledge

Everyone was asked to stand up,
repeat words that should've been
secret, a mass colony of language
threatened by the extinction
of revelation.  We also raised
our hands, which couldn't be
trusted, which aimed trigger
fingers at humankind and called
the ensuing destruction "good."
The only thing we could depend on
was the song we sung after,
at the cock fights and medal
presentations, blaring at circuses
before clowns in fatigues rose
out of their cars, played delicately
at the performance by the prodigy
who wore a flag pin on her lapel.
In our dreams we escaped these
notes temporarily, but they dragged
us back, too sweet for any to resist.
In this way we believed in an "us."
In this way we could call it love.