Fires of Conspiracy

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From those in power,
We are different.
The smell is sour,
The taste, a bitterent.
The throne ought be mirror,
Not what casts a shadow.
The occupant peers ore’,
Their hardened hearts to harrow.
In furrowed wakes behind,
They planted in the soil
And the dirt that is our minds
Seeds of greed that despoil.
Their labor; our sweat and blood,
Their currency; our souls.
Just one night, a violent flood
To overthrow their thrones.
But will we stand
Against the tide?
Our bloody hands,
Their secrets hide.
No more behind a face so strange,
We’ll find one more familiar,
Shown in the puddled rain
To be one that is similar.
The last dark night, the red dawn shows
Whose hands that did conspire,
Death and greed with war in tow,
In ash recently expired.
From those ashes who’s to say,
What tree we’ll see to grow?
We, the ones to prune today,
Decide beauty or thorn show.

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