Bitter hands braid shadows in flight,
coiling around the sun’s last flame.
They whisper virtue like slipping silk,
feeding mouths stitched shut by plenty.
Empty palms stretch, begging for ruin,
while salvation hangs on quiet strings.
Unearned honey drips from bent lips,
sweet poison that sears the swallowed.
Who will sing when lanterns shatter?
The flicker gasps beneath thick decay.
Hope dressed by fire yet bound in ash,
its wings tarred by hands that prattle.
To save, they drown the drowning still,
charity’s mask hiding grinning despair.
No bones break clean beneath such weight,
no light ignites where shadows feast.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: August 8th, 2025 11:31
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 14
Offline)
Comments2
This poem begs for interpretation in its obscurity it speaks of inequality, lack of justice it requires several reads and even then it is not completely clear
Powerful work.
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