Tyranny: A poem 

Power is not spick and span like a nun 

Leaves many wounded for the battles won 

Conscience doesn’t waylay a tyrant’s hand 

Its touch is as coarse as desert sand 

Blackened with the peat of greed, ruthless with instinct 

To rule the misbegotten wilderness, beasts barely think 

about the grease on the dishes lying in the sink 

After the party of self-will, an eye doesn’t blink 

The heart of humanity is battered like a slave 

The fight for freedom is not so bold and brave 

With the muscle of a machine gun, destiny is cheated 

Sycophancy’s tongues lick favour, justice is defeated  

The sun’s energy is pale, in fact, white with fright 

The stars and the moon reek of the night 

Integrity is a victory that living dead don’t have in sight 

when the choice is death or put up with the blight