to claim submission, to defy what is plain

but money can change the story telling

as long as we both seal our lips

and this is machiavelli wearing roses,

with a poisoned dagger aimed

towards the heart of the unsuspecting crowd

for what is moved is easiness, pleasure heightened,

the loot can be kept

because there is only grace, no justice,

like the bleary eyed cat yawning at dawn,

unable to catch the mice

even when it is just an inch away

but the belly is full, no more need to struggle.

how pleasant, how comfortable, how paradise like

it all is – surely this must be the life

that all who seek will find, nothing is amiss. right?

i mean, everyone gets what they want,

the poor and underserving get trampled on

when they lack … … faith.

faith, that cannot be measured, quantified, sipped

like wine, told like lies coming out of the

merchant’s mouth even as he makes another deceptive

move. toad, frogs, serpents.

they have more resemblance to a heinous clown

whose face i do not see,

all i hear are his laughter, when the gold is piling

up. but the field is dying.

faith, the joker said, they all lacked faith,

till the terrible sky began to descend,

for his conscience is swept clean with what money

can buy. psychological stasis even when hands are wrought

with the slain and more slaying.

let’s tell another story shall we? that those slain

were all guilty: or better yet, something more

lofty, i care not to shed this veil

when god is dead, unmoving, uncaring

isn’t this all his fault?

then the usurper speaks as god,

for he found the throne vacant.