The steps built by dead men, were the ones we have just climbed.
To reach the room, we had help from the elevator of Peace.
The door, had revolutionaries on each side, and opened that door for us.
We took our seat, as the door behind us is chained.
As the people lock the chains, the key is on the table.
Strapped to the chairs, by the will of man.
We must finally find connection, with us as representation.
The dream of men conflicted, built the table we use.
Future decided by men, those of us on the chairs.
Our idiotic head-butt, back and forth.
On all of our hands, wearing a ring for each finger.
Encrusted opun the gold, Pain, Guilt, Trust, and Past.
With a buzzer in the middle, shocking every time a deal is struck.
But it's time we put this game to an end. Because I remove my rings,
As they all nod in succession and do the same.
-
Author:
Thinker (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 23rd, 2018 19:19
- Category: Sociopolitical
- Views: 14
Offline)
Comments1
Very powerful! I enjoyed your sociopolitical statement and often have similar feelings.
I'm new to this site and are unable to determine whether what is posted is considered a poem (classical or free verse) or prose, etc.
Is there some type of topic to be checked for each submitted form or is it all just considered poetry?
Thanks for your input.
Best,
Tamara Beryl Latham
You can really write whatever you want, I've seen more the just poetry. So, go for it. And I'm thrilled you were able to take something from this. Thank you for reading
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