The crowds infected with the heat,
Will reap no more on my defeat,
Will feast upon my empty seat,
That is the nature of their feat.
The gathering of empty men,
And a blind chorus of the voices,
Can never build a better land,
Only reflect their poor choices.
As all the men have one voice, least,
When all are one, and none are all,
You hear the moans of empty coal,
Just cracking up beneath the heat.
That is the nature of their feat,
And their lives are not the same,
Some folks are meant for the deceit,
And other just to entertain.
Should we lie still, and simply pray,
Or should we fight it and oppress?
It matters not, cause what we do,
Will always be hold in distress.
Contempt for the merciful, the weak,
Contempt for the strong, the tyrant,
The essence of the man is bleak,
Just the victorius is giant!
YOU ARE READING
Through the veil ( Poetry )
PoesíaA volume of poems under work, a story told chaotic and backwards about the birth, death, life and intrigues of "a" or "the" God, and one small mortal who takes the trip to discover all in-between them.
