Pale Empires
They push to fashion pain.
They tear to harvest tears.
They take to tighten strain.
They rule by seeded fears.
They lie to lacquer faults.
They bleach the record clean.
They sanctify assaults
And call their hunger “seen.”
They map in righteous red.
They sail on ghost-white cloth.
Pale hands above the dead,
Pale faces naming wrath.
They preach of light and grace.
They brand their conquest “right.”
Yet drain the human face
Until it blanches white.
They rise on borrowed breath.
On blood they will not claim.
Pale empires bloom from death—
And whiten into shame.
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