“Dinner Over Graves”

They sip champagne over
fresh graves—
Calling it business.

Boardroom teeth
chew through famine,
but pray on gold dinner plates
for souls they’ll never feed.

They drop missiles
like loose change—
And call it foreign policy.
Suits bloodstained
with flags they never saluted.

I see men
burn their conscience
for a blue check,
slipping into algorithms
that forget the taste
of bread shared
between hungry mouths.

Tell me—
what’s power worth
if your hands are too clean
to touch the dead?

I watched friends
become profiles.
Watched mothers
learn war through
buffering livestreams
and bulletproof hashtags.

Their pain?
Aesthetic.

Their trauma?
A market.

And still—
you sit there,
in glass rooms,
serving genocide
with hors d'oeuvres,
flashing smiles
while cities turn to shadows.

But I won’t wear your mask.
Won’t toast to your future.
I’ll dance barefoot
in the ashes you ignore—
Name every name
that you erased
in PowerPoint slides.

I’ll bury truth
in the soil of my chest
before I sell it
to your charity auction.

Let me break,
not bend.
Let me scream,
not trend.

Let me stay human
while your world turns
to algorithmic applause.

And when it’s done—
when your empire forgets itself—
I’ll still be here,
singing to the bones
you called collateral.

Sleep well,
Architects of silence.
Your ghosts have mouths.