Freedom's Silent Toll
Humiliation's voice is dead,
by Michael Walkerjohn
its ashes burn one's intimation;
somberness of minds forbade,
elemental act of will's emasculation;
society's face hewn plain,
each wears scar, of history's adjudication;
fountain of freedom curst,
through act of brutal collectivization.
Moral conscience, drips of truth's blood,
ties all to heinous crime;
disgrace paves humanity's street,
guilt's pride travels on light's time;
freedom's path rudely crossed,
by sloth, guile and viscous slime;
affliction is truth's boiled split lip,
‘bushed' again by putrid grime.
Searching minds and questioning hearts,
yearn for freedom's ring;
throughly draped in deception,
it's bound by death's apron string;
mind games subdue the meek,
corruption's bite upon us fling;
throughout our land its doors hinge,
locked by fiendish beings.
Decipher glyph of sound bite wrung,
devious value surely brought;
politics plied on wheel of hate,
by minions curst of all free thought;
thoughts seeped in fraud,
lipped by one puppets mouth extraught;
ruthless dirges spit tune mundane,
in duplicity, lifes overwrought.
Answer's bell of future's loss,
life in hand proved worthless whole;
inexplicitly cast by souls,
who's ‘net', escapes reality's smoke hole;
dubiously a die once cut,
wrought key made for life's control;
trumped, with fear in mind.
we ply release, of Freedom's silent toll.