Parasitic, souls of lower caste,
relentless work and loveless art,
as they administer their own brand of justice,
delusions starched like tight white collars,
strangle the flow of life.
As energy is sucked from our very flesh,
their intent and control so deeply etched,
into our unsuspecting lives, their crawl,
we, swept into their chaotic vortex,
their dramatic flaunting souls.
Null of substance, ill of dream,
they ravage our consistent lives it seems,
unstable ground forms wherever they are,
and for us the sink holes
of their desperate charms.
Parasites they are in endless levels,
taking all that they are able,
disregarding all we ask,
to satisfy their insatiable qualms,
their whims of flesh and fancy.
I see their guile, their supercilious smiles,
and the knot in my stomach asks,
some distance to make and quickly task,
before their needs spill over,
and used we are, rolled in clover.
The souls of lower caste, are just ignorant,
and every word is written for gain,
nothing free, not without pain
is knowing these souls too close,
immersed in their dark chaos,
is not worth the misguided journey.
Tony DeLorger © 2017
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