Ozytrumpdias (evolving draft)

I found American echoes of silence in sand,
splintered bits of time beyond what we know
troubled, poor shadows of pure distress and guns
half sunk behind a rising maga-ish red sun,
a sliver of wrinkled lip of total command
carved on a bit of trampled bloodied sand,
a golden lip without knowledge of tune or song,
no sense, just scars on heartless buried bones.
With so many visits from the most gorgeous of birds,
why is our world so fully peppered with turkey turds?