#elite - Hello Poetry

The old men sit enthroned in perfumed air, their laughter lined with something fouler still, they speak of virtue, measured and fair, while underneath, the world is bent to will. They dine where chandeliers outshine the day, on silver laid with histories erased, their napkins hide what fingers would betray, and every course is delicately laced. The statesmen sit with sealed tongues, their vision narrowed down to coin and gain. They hear the cries die young in younger lungs, yet weigh them lightly next to profit’s reign. Great halls resound with glass and silverware, while hunger gnaws the marrow from the street, thhe cost of distant wars hangs in the air, where foreign children fall beneath our feet. In streets below, the hunger learned to wait, it curls in doorways, nsmeless and ignored. while distant wars are argued as debate, and suffering is rendered as a board. The body, once a line no hand should cross, is made a tool, a currency, a game. What should be named as harm, and loss is softened into spectacle and shame. Power is taught to wear a harmless face, and cruelty is smuggled into view. and those whi break the young are led away in comfort, while the broken are spent. No thunder answers when these things are known, no reckoning descends to break the chain; the guilty age in comfort, undethroned, the wounded disappear in quiet pain. What rot is this, that passes now for order, what world demands we witness and comply? The soul grows thin along this moral border, where truth is taught to falter, then to die.

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Apr 10

Apr 10, 2026 at 11:13 AM UTC

Andy_doll

The New 120 Days Of *****

The old men sit enthroned in perfumed air, their laughter lined with something fouler still, they speak of virtue, measured and fair, while underneath, the world is bent to will. They dine where chandeliers outshine the day, on silver laid with histories erased, their napkins hide what fingers would betray, and every course is delicately laced. The statesmen sit with sealed tongues, their vision narrowed down to coin and gain. They hear the cries die young in younger lungs, yet weigh them lightly next to profit’s reign. Great halls resound with glass and silverware, while hunger gnaws the marrow from the street, thhe cost of distant wars hangs in the air, where foreign children fall beneath our feet. In streets below, the hunger learned to wait, it curls in doorways, nsmeless and ignored. while distant wars are argued as debate, and suffering is rendered as a board. The body, once a line no hand should cross, is made a tool, a currency, a game. What should be named as harm, and loss is softened into spectacle and shame. Power is taught to wear a harmless face, and cruelty is smuggled into view. and those whi break the young are led away in comfort, while the broken are spent. No thunder answers when these things are known, no reckoning descends to break the chain; the guilty age in comfort, undethroned, the wounded disappear in quiet pain. What rot is this, that passes now for order, what world demands we witness and comply? The soul grows thin along this moral border, where truth is taught to falter, then to die.