Poetry

They stand on the top of the world.
They look down upon us, with those cunning eyes,
As sharp as a cleaver that cuts through your flesh.
Do they feel pity? Oh! So greasy words-to soothe your pain?
Or, to give you hope? Don’t be fooled.
Don’t you see the smirk! They will feed you,
The words of bright future, only to milk you dry.
Want to point your finger? Go ahead!
But pay the undertaker first,
To arrange a room six feet under.
What are you to them have you ever thought?
Mere zooplanktons to feed on.
They shook hands with Lucifer,
They walk the path of Faustus.
Rights? You want to talk about rights?
With them? Your words will never reach their ears.
They buy a nation and its future in the morning,
Only to sell it in the evening.
They raise impious wars on foreign lands,
Because battles earn them living.

I wonder how much a man needs,
To lead a simple life, and to raise a happy family?
I ask, Is the world not enough for you?
Truly only the soil of your own grave,
Can satisfy your hunger.