The Warmonger
By Raventongue
- 441 reads
He knocks down the straw man scapegoat-
To make us feel protected
When he himself is but another stuffed shirt
With the soul of a marionette
This shallow hollow fellow
He draws us together
In order to keep us poles apart
Coat rack skeletons dance
Without passion alongside him as he speaks
He shakes the hands of tin men
And has an entourage of manikins
Those of us who are not ghosts reaching in vain
Are animated corpses
Popping our spines and spilling dust-dried blood
In action without purpose
And purpose without action
We possess the void, we fall through spirals
Aeons times aeons of light-years apart
Invisible, intangible and silent
Iota-small and infinitely numbered
With his tongue of flame
With his tongue of ice
With the sharp precision of his tongue-
Incapable of being blunt-
He offers us his lip-service
With lips of wax
So dirty and yet so sterile
And we, a canned chorus, answer on command
He comes to sit on the throne of hate
And rule the world adored
To show us destructive power
Like we've never seen before
The memory of the cities
We build only to destroy
Will be erased as we salute him,
For in killing he finds joy
Now that justice's scales have tipped,
Overbalanced, done a flip
And fallen off the pedestal
We have iron on our wrists
We have shackles on our feet
Iron rejoins iron as dust to dust
Iron rejoins iron and turns to rust
- Log in to post comments