#343 (bleeding ballots)


in a glass palace,

you divide and concur

drawing borders on paper,

never having to feel the pain

of seeing how they prevent

the people in need.

Your ballots don’t bleed,

they don’t scream or weep,

all paper devoid of passion.

Yet you ought to feel the marble

sword, blind goddess’s wrath

while you keep smiling away the

minutes. Shaking hands,

nodding heads, applauding

the grave injustice instead of

breaking the transparent walls

of your complacency.


© Matthias Geh, 22nd June 2018




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