Man Broken

I am a man broken of behaviours, as moral grey and religious saviours amalgamate.

There’s a revolution in my being, torches and pitchforks and disembodied screaming, the force of a thousand hands pushing down Bastilles. I was a man with no authority to spill prisoners in the street, lay crude weapons at their feet,

but I watched as gods among men
vilified each desperate climb over
mountains of their making,

now the exiles of my imagination
refuse to speak of peace.

Mine are hands too callused to reach for yours,
too bloodied to wrap around breaking
bread with devils,

conventional as their evils may be.

I don’t want to leave one door open but break them
all down,
setting fires in
town squares to
end desire for what I most despair, the

weight of
tainted crowns.

I am a man without some relevance, a rogue without a name, stealing bread to feed whole families, lest a father have to admit such shame. I am a battering ram against your value, for you have shown that we have none. I am the violence of love for my fellows, words to the warriors’ bellows as we storm your gallows and steal the guns.

Mine is a moat lowered for everyone for swarm,
penning constitutions of thy kingdom come.


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