I am no servant of rusted thrones,
no cog in their oiled deceit—
though I walk the same stained stairs
where power wears its grinning masks,
I’ll never choke on their scripted lies.
And yet—
a thousand uprisings burn in my blood,
a blaze no law can smother:
I won’t kneel in their gilded tombs
or carve my name on hollow gold.
For I am the hunger behind each empty plate,
the breath of those drowned in silence—
just another ghost in the market’s slaughter,
clawing for crumbs at the banquet of thieves.
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Author:
Mottakeenur Rehman (
Offline) - Published: May 4th, 2025 02:28
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 14
Offline)
Comments1
This is a powerful poem that speaks with thunder and seems to echo down the ages. Great wording and use of metaphor as well as wonderful images lends to its power. Lovely
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