Mold of a Merciless Hand
To make a mold of a merciless hand
who moves through generations like a flood
an aggression that travels in the blood
the violence of recently lit firebrand.
A war with Mother Nature is not won
with atomic superiority
a deadly act of authority
the constant wind and rain has us undone.
The colors of our minds dusty yellow
as the dove flies over the Mulberry
we release feathers for the wind that blows.
Our violence becomes our bedfellow
no longer peaceful home sanctuary
just space for death and time to decompose.
A hidden anger in our hearts move world
our thoughts upon our victims not lovers
a time when happiness undiscovered
lies under iron fist alone and gnarled.
A heretic started the fire not witch
those times in human history when blood
would wash each corpse and carcass down a flood
of rhetoric that’s read from foxhole ditch.
Powerful spirits instruct flying kites
the wolves feel sudden pity for their prey
so lost in thoughts of war we cannot see.
When pain arrives upon the tail of nights
our humanity quickly pushed away
we do not listen to our hearts own plea.
Bribed by a boundless tongue that beats and baits
to lash and whip before the words entrap
these brutal cracks draw fresh maps on skull cap
so many fists stay clenched to seal their fates.
A generations trauma pushes script
to move the strong towards a violent end
an open festered wound that will not mend
the scales of justice prefer to be tipped.
This is affirmation of man’s anger
reflected off a child’s watery eye
a blood red x to make a brand new day
Whomever swings the mightiest hammer
or shows their strength by forcing a reply
with whip or staff for those who disobey.
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