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Poem

Across the war-torn atrophy,
A decomposing cracked corpse,
Shakes and splits in the sovereignty,
Of the rounded Earth which warps.

Annihilated by the angst of grouped race:
A false duplicitous spell,
Cast by the convention of crooked space,
Filled by the blackest magic of hell.

Governance is but a season of treason,
To portent an enemy’s existence,
Denying the bond of unblind reason,
In order to mock the truth of resistance.

Robins once flittered in hooded cloaks,
To unveil the robes of thieves,
Whose crowns are but a farcical coax,
To control what the world believes.

Locked in this cyclical wheel of a hamster,
We pay our unwarranted dues,
With neither representation nor an answer,
To why we’re enslaved by you.

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