Cold War

This world is not as cold

As its endless war,

That festers like a black heart

Below its surface.

Its people are not content

With fighting for the heart

To continue beating.

Instead, the exploding star

Like a substitute sunrise

That encapsulates the consciousness

Shared between us paints

The volatile sky yellow,

So that even in winter the hidden figures

Cannot hide their games.

Yet we abide in the false knowledge

That to be apart is to survive.

Salem’s Fools

We are Salem’s fools

Fearful and hollow,

We are cruel

And born to follow.

 

Our eyes are bright

With firelight,

And our devils die screaming.

 

Our village unbound and

Our vision blind,

Our victims are found

To be our kind.

 

It is too late, for their blood

Stains our hands

And we cry to ourselves at night.

 

Yet we are still sure we are right.

P.M.Q’s

The House of Commons

A chamber for the boorish and unwise,

A diner for the infantile and desperate,

A congregation of ego and fear.

One thinks they hold victory

Their voice picked up by the camera,

A sad and oafish cry of ‘loser’s weepers’

Or, occasionally, nothing more

Than a beastly grunt or theatre howl.

Snide smiles and cravings for power,

Each believing they have the answers.

They all lie within the tight fist of the people

Who hold a power that they could only dream of.

Leaders

There are those that claw to power,

Eyes fixed on the tempting star

Alight with infinite majesty

And always out of reach.

Those few with harsh blood

Who sacrifice their world

To capture what cannot be caught,

And keep what needs to be free.

They, themselves, are caged

And are too proud to sing.

Those clothed by the earth

Remain to watch the fire burn.