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
     chants 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

 
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