Manipulation
A Quiet Hand will press the Soul—
So Soft—you scarcely know—
Until your Breath becomes a Crime
They’re certain you must owe—
They scatter Thorns along your Path
Then marvel when you bleed—
And chide the very Wound they made
As Proof of some dark Deed—
They set a Storm within your Chest
And call the Lightning yours—
Though they, with calculated Calm,
Unlocked the trembling Doors—
But Truth—like timid Clover—hides
And waits for Dawn to see—
How small the Tyrant’s Kingdom is
When You at last walk free.
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