Where the hand ends and sword begins,

The pen doused in blue sky to tell of brown Earth,

The mouth is an unruly child if unchecked by pruned sound bites,

Medals wearing the men with frenzied fever for the incorrigible,

Media swaying and stumbling home drunk from withdrawals of opiate misgivings,

Metallic taste duelling with forced bends and cajoled turns,

Old Pillars, cornerstones and foundations have come onair to die,

The funeral pyre of truth cackles without incense or attempts at innocence,

Up there, with made faces and shaped moustaches,

Vanguards of short changed harem preach the shallow misdeeds of life with gusto,

Down here, legions fold in ruckus at the ease of squeeze of gullible gulps of sold lies,

Divisioning has always been a tool to fool the cool,

It’s still applicable and sad as it is.