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.
“There’s no magic money tree”
Unless you are the DUP;
No more money for nurses jobs
but just enough for the Tory mob.
Anything else is unpatriotic.
*I don’t usually write political stuff but…COME ON!*
We are Salem’s fools
Fearful and hollow,
We are cruel
And born to follow.
Our eyes are bright
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.
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.
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.