Poem: Trump's First Year


With no frail ego that needs shoring up
by pulverising those with different views,
no love for money, power, influence,
no wish to be a headline in the news,

taught by my mother that my home was Earth,
that walls were artificial, people real,
loving colour, language and diversity,
preferring not the known, but what we feel,

I sank into a deep gloom watching Trump
campaign to take the White House, then get in.
His first year taught me that the triumph's mine,
since I will never, ever be like him.

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