of war. It's all they wrote.
Power struggles never yet relieved.
Pen in hand, the candle's light
was never quite enough to make
them real. Recording homicides
in vellum'd ordering - the scheme
was written by the last regime
that held the power for a little while.
They only changed the style of the lettering.
And found a cheaper way to make it shine.
While hiding all the gold within the misery
of all their well-trained minds.
as they sought to brainwash others.
Subliminal inducements that would weave
their way into their makers minds.
The hardest part was always left behind.
Reality was etched in black and white
upon the balance sheets they printed.
Conniving for the nothing at its end.
Novels that no longer claimed
morality to be a gain, were named
as number one upon their lists.
But now and
then a poet spoke.
Redeeming yet another quality.
Of all that life was meant to be.
Undivided, sacred blasphemy.
Still unpaid for their labor's worth.
Living life into a pauper's grave.
Or sailing in the freedom of a wind
too full of ashes to be breathed.
In death that no one grieved,
except for one. One other soul
that sought the whole and won...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2003 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .