Crisis

Will future generations understand

The turmoil of these days, the strain and stress,

The dawn's despair, the night's uneasiness,

The greed of itching palms throughout the land?

Will they conceive the fires fanatics fanned,

Of time the universal wastefulness,

The strange philosophies the mobs confess

That every throat cry out some new demand?

Time was when men held saner counsel here.

Will that time come again? Shall we behold

From this grim madness some new love unfold?

We pray for gentler times, when man shall cease

His brother man to bully or to fear.

Great God, among ourselves let us have peace!

Max Ehrmann 

This poem describes how I feel about the Trump Presidency. 
The Worker