24200
Truth is a blade
that cuts deep
even when the wound
is dressed in lies
It does not dull
does not bend
a spine of obsidian
in a world of smoke
d e c e i t . .
the traitor’s only scripture
chant like a hymn
carving deceptions into trust
until the whole collapses . .
they laugh as the rubble buries faces they refuse to name
Some fall willingly
into the chasm
so long
as their descent is cushioned
by the backs of others
They Call it Survival ~
this art of crushing
what they themselves
do not dare to carry
But what of the edge
beyond forever . ?
A question asked twice . ?
as if repetition
could map the void
Is it a mirror
a hunger
or the darkness left
when stars forget
their shine . . ?
Odium . .
pools in the footprints
of cruelties
while the odious ~
wear contempt
like a second skin
They do not see
the rot they breed
only the false crowns
they polish
The forgotten
have no epitaphs
Their names
dissolve like mud
in the rain
their stories ash . !
Hope, a language
they no longer speak
their silence has teeth ~
Bare feet . .
walking on eggshells
made of glass
each step an arc of fracture . .
Blood blooms
like flowers in our wake
a garden of grimace and grit
we pretend not to notice
how the shards glint
like unfinished agony
Karma arrived unannounced
no courtesy of a knock
no warning bell . .
just the door splintering
the reckoning already inside
breathing . . !
in the space
between heartbeats
It Does not Bargain ~
K A R M A . . !
has no conscience
no heart
no sentiment
s t i l l . .
the blade of truth remains
l o d g e d . .
in the ribs
of our conscience
unmoved by the lies
we preach
or
The Gods we Bury . . .
© mingoáo
