Righteous anger is justifiable.
When it is called a pillage by those who do not understand, or those being enacted upon, it's context seems savage. When in fact, this anger is in its complete right.

A reasonable length of time to be angry is as long as the injustice prevails.
Where are we, if not in a place where justice is considered the norm?

We are here.

Standing upon our own bones in a burial ground we built ourselves,
By unceasingly digging graves for all of our problems and hoping the earth would provide wealth to our homeless.
Sometimes burying a problem only feeds it.

Instead of hiding it, we bury it in a shallow grave.
We allow it's toxicity to seep into our gardens, into our watering holes.
And it poisons us, it feeds us with inhuman practices guarded by a Cerberus built of lies.
Lies so poor in foundation we wind up burying our dead right along shallow graves.

Graves having constantly more and more dirt thrown upon them, failing to understand that a deeper hole couldn't even fix what handfuls of dirt sprinkled atop shallow graves are believed to.

So,
Perhaps the time has come.
For the dead to rise, because it's the dead who suffer. Poisoned while resting in supposed peace.
Perhaps it's time the dead find their expired hour glasses and empty them.
Refill them with gunpowder and make due for lost time.

Maybe these overgrown infants deserve the lesson, the one they fail to realize.
That shallow graves are swept aside by heavy rains.
That the dead don't rise on command, and that they lie in stillness by their own accord.

The streets need to ride the rising tides and open the empty plots. To begin writing the eulogies and engraving the tombstones. To commemorate the last of a dying breed.

And bury them in the cemetery behind the Heroes of Failed Revolutions.
Bury them in the graveyard that lies in the back of
The Fletcher Memorial Home
For
Incurable
Tyrants and Kings.