An election poem written in compassion


We have become the thing that we abhorred.
We did worse things that they might not do worst.
Vile things they planned to say we uttered first.
And wounded all our friends with blunted sword.

That they might think us bought we took their cash.
To gain respect from killers blooded hands.
We hang and torture while the gallows stands.
To tear it down too soon would be too rash.

While murder smiles and prays and thirsts for blood
Beloved of many we must match his pace
And hide regret behind a smiling face.
Dissimulate that one day we’ll do good.

We have not earned and yet we ask your trust.
Believe us bad, they’re worse. Be wise. You must.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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