prancing as we
repeatedly toil,
prescient of our
so spoiled fate -
a life which weeps
and may only ever reap
scraps from your plate,
the Latin ordinare
which you prepare
leaves it’s rusted trail
across my tongue,
iron splinters
embed their prongs,
silencing talk
of the sham -
the entire, higher
empire scam
that has you lording
high above
lacking what we feel,
hoarding
what’s not real,
who really got the better deal?
About the Creator
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Comments (4)
I think I may be lacking some context but I loved your poem!
I love when you do social commentary with your biting, piercing words! completely agree and royalty should only retain its position if it of any real use! not prancing about, pretending to work by taking luxury holidays to the woeful empire's old stomping grounds, actual stomping grounds, where the aim is to either apologise or punnily whitewash over the crimes of their ancestors! when the poor are at their poorest!
Hi Kayleigh! You always amaze me with your words. You did a great job showing the unfairness between the rich and the struggling. The imagery of "iron splinters" and "rusted trail" really hits hard, making the pain of being oppressed feel real. I like how the last line leaves you thinking about who’s really winning in this system. This is an exceptionally written strong, and thought-provoking piece.
nice