The Feast Beneath Pennsylvania
At midnight, deep beneath D.C.'s pride,
A tunnel breathed secrets the daylight hides.
Pennsylvania Avenue—so clean, so grand—
But under its bones lies a cursed land.
Dark suits walk halls soaked in red,
A velvet silence where the truth lies dead.
The walls pulse with symbols from ages old,
Carved by hands both cruel and cold.
Fridges hum like funeral songs,
Storing innocence stolen wrong.
A sip from goblets—ritual grace—
Drinking what once had a name, a face.
Chants rise low, in voices torn,
As one calls out to the south, forlorn:
“Oh Lucifer, bless this sacred feast,
Let hunger grow, and hope decrease.”
A screen glows bright with human pain—
War, rape, hunger—all for gain.
To them, each scream a golden prize,
Each tear a ladder toward the skies.
They laugh where others starve and die,
Feeding greed with every lie.
Their power grows from broken lives,
While justice sleeps, and truth survives.
But not all is lost in the dark and deep,
For even shadows cannot keep
The whispered hope of one brave child,
A single spark—gentle, wild.
That whisper stirs, that ember cries,
And ghosts of justice start to rise.
The stars above no longer rest—
A reckoning moves from east to west.
So when the winds begin to scream,
And nightmares flood the halls of dreams—
They’ll ask who knew, who dared believe,
What horrors bloomed beneath the feast.
Copyright ©
Chanda Katonga
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