Machiavellians
They smile—as Houses—smile at Night—
With Windows—all asleep—
Yet in the Cellar—Footsteps count—
The Promises—they keep—
Their Candor—is a borrowed Coat—
They wear—then lay aside—
The Truth—prefers a quieter Room—
Where Schemes—are not denied—
They measure Mercy—with a Rule—
And trim it—to their Need—
The Garden—blooms with careful Hands—
But bleeds—at every thorn—
A Dove—would hesitate—mid-flight—
To choose their offered Air—
For Peace—can be a practiced Word—
And Trust—a slender Prayer—
Yet even here—the Heart persists—
A Rebel—soft—and small—
For Power—cannot silence Light—
Nor Darkness—finish—All—
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