If you’re quiet,
in the silence you can hear
and synapses firing hot,
then burning out;
as well groomed conflict
takes down hearts and minds alike.
Bleeding hearts find no bandage
and coagulate slowly.
Most are left to just bleed out on the floor,
their bodies shape a grim hedgerow
along the path to fortune and power.
Rogue warriors; ragged and tattered,
speak the reason of seasoned conflict.
The better way,
the absolution of sin,
freedom from all servitude.
In the cities,
our hungry hands clamor
for plastic RFID shackles.
A public mad with thirst
drinks deeply of the discord,
for they have long been deaf to music.
Dancing like short strung marionettes
in the blood of the innocent,
swaying under the baton
of the same old maestro.
A familiar face hidden
behind a mask of venerability.
Even close proximity to such power
results in madness.
Can’t you hear it?
HG – 2016
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