Art of Wrinkles
The finess of palm
Is marred by wrinkles
Through gold finger;
They sink into designer suit,
Emerge from the collar,
They intertwine into a dense web
Of confusion, lies,deceit, hate;
The eyes are like marbles,
Age stinks like death
Worse still without reason,
Yet he still finds season
To preside over an oppressed
And dispossessed people.
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