A tale of thieves and kings, the Priests of Greed,
Rests on the tongue of a disgruntled people.
Drinking from a cup of poison ever so bitter
Without sweets and salty foods to stave
Off the truth. When they know not
What they’re suffering for
The blame shifts
Violently!
An island half forest and half desert
Standing all alone. Built a city on dirt
The people ignored the shifting sands.
A people unable to offer their own hands.
Where the sand met land there was hurt.
Guards holding guns with orders to avert.
Nature created a cliff holding the trees
Far above the dunes. Convicted thieves
Set free on the desert ransack the towns
Barely holding on. Heavy tariffs,
Lack of exports, anti-refugee laws;
A people just like them abandoned.
Thieves written off as executed
Ruling the dunes where nightmares rest.
What reason is there? How can this be a test
For the living? All hope decimated.
Scared and in a corner they let anger
Spew from the cracks in their hearts.
The only compassion they receive
Are bullets raining from the sky above.
The world looks away in disgust
Believing their lies of comfort.
Do they feel or is there rust
On their hearts? The last resort.
“When can we justify this twisted divide?
When something is missing on the inside.”
Vasha'Lakar 