Digging your own grave.
Broken and hollowed out.
Nothing will come to save.
Of this impending disaster there should be no doubt.
Come to pass beneath this feast of kings.
You want a seat amongst the ruling.
Disgusting in your twisted actions.
Bleed this sky.
Carve out a false communion.
Spit at these would be Gods.
Ambition to govern everybody.
Impaling non-believers on rods.
Betraying those who dare to speak with honesty.
Vestige of that which you crave most.
Banish outliers like they are ghosts.
Chew on hope to feed more dreadful deeds.
Part these seas.
Then bathe lands with instability.
Programmed to usurp and destroy.
Crush old monuments like a disease.
Feed the rich.
Exploit the poor.
Sever decency.
Make joy a crime under every sun.
Divide until conquest is secured.
That shallow rut should’ve been your home.
Sense is a word you’ve never heard.
The faster your demise the sooner a potential reunion.
Simon A Jackson - Writer 