He sat in a chair,
unable to move,
a prisoner without name
in the jail of despair,
that rose high on the hill
of world circumstance,
surrounded by shouts
of the armies of night,
preparing for war
on bastions of peace,
and as they prepared
hot seas rose high,
angry skies flashed,
and all the stars wept,
for the millions to die,
the already slain,
as assassins and tyrants
claimed, with righteous disdain,
that it was all for our good,
that all would be well,
and silenced the few
who dared to protest.
Reblogged this on The Winstanley Gazette and commented:
The world as it is. We must dare.
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Such a tragic foolish species.
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