one hand to another—
first kissed with moon’s peace,
carries the war of Mars, the other.
bang, bang, bang,
no, uprising can be silent.
inked feathers, decades-old,
once leak cold defiance.
fast forward to our rich well of false news
as constant as the setting, rising sun,
an age where those who let their voices be heard
are deemed nonsense, complaining tin cans,
by those who let their swords down
to blindly worship the cursing elected one,
ironic how we’ve evolved as the wisest
yet most foolish version of a man.