The Flickering Light (Series on Liberals #2)

Liberals trace the smoke of ruin,  

their hands stretched but never steady.  

They deal in gifts, weightless offerings,  

a bread that crumbles in the teeth.  

In the aftermath, fields lie hollow,  

furrows emptied, roots left unturned.  

No spade nor sickle, only shadows,  

brief reprieve, then the weight returns.  

They promise balm, a gloss for wounds,  

but leave the flesh beneath neglected.  

No heft of shoulder, no honest trial,  

just the sweetness of easy answers.  

The world bends low beneath their words,  

their light a flicker, not a flame.  

And those they save, left half-abandoned,  

carry burdens paid for in despair.