In the hollows of power’s grip,
where shadows twist the heart’s cry,
there—mights build thrones on backs bent,
where abuse wears the mask of guidance,
control, a cloak woven with the thread of fear.
Power thrives in silence, feeding on the unspoken.
Manipulation, subtle as the serpent’s whisper,
curls around dreams, tightening,
threats drip, venomous, eroding hope,
indifference, a cold moon, shuns the warmth
of...
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