Narratives
A painting speaks in silent truth,
A song declares the heart.
But crafted tales are forged for power
Where dark narrations start.
The presses groan, the ink runs hot,
The forgers stir the flame.
The powerful conspire and foment fear
Seeking fortune and fame.
Media move like fields of wheat,
When winds begin to rise.
The storm they conjure takes its course,
Unruled by rational ties.
They cry out justice with their lips,
Yet barter truth for gain.
They weep aloud for lawless men
And cheer the righteous slain.
The innocent are brushed aside,
Their blood forgotten fast.
While silver moves through greasened palms
To purchase outrage vast.
They chant for peace with clenched-up fists,
And strike the law down dead.
They call rebellion mercy now,
And crown deceit instead.
Fraud is clothed in charity,
And hatred robed as love.
The lie ascends the public square,
While truth is hunted like a dove.
Reason waits at city gates,
Unheard, unnamed, untold.
The heart is seized by shouting crowds,
And wisdom’s voice grows cold.
Deceit, rehearsed and praised aloud,
Becomes a practiced art.
The many bow to pleasing lies
That harden mind and heart.
Yet truth endures beyond the din,
Unmoved by threat or trend.
The word outlasts the virtual rage
And waits for it to end.
If justice is the thing you seek,
Then weigh the path you choose.
For judgment comes by measures set—
To claim what you may lose.
