The Ballot Box Has Scorpions
They promise dawn beneath a brighter day,
Yet leave us counting shadows in the rain.
Each slogan shines like paint on rusted gates,
Then peels away before inevitable pain...
The benches know the weight of waiting hands,
The streets remember every broken vow.
A mother folds tomorrow into bread,
While power feeds the privileged fatted cows.
The flags still lift against an honest wind,
Though truth is traded cheaply in the square.
A worker wipes the stress from weary eyes
And asks what freedom costs, as if they dare.
The loudest mouths inherit every stage;
The quiet hearts inherit every bill.
Still rivers carve their patience ‘n’ pittance wage,
And justice never comes from a lawyers quill.
No throne outlives. the footsteps of the crowd,
No crown survives a conscience fully true.
The seed beneath the cracked and thirsty earth
Keeps faith with rain, the morning will be new.
So raise no fist without an open hand;
Let anger bloom into enduring light.
For every voice denied , must make a stand,
And every standing soul must do what’s right.