Poetry 12

Angelic eyes filled with fire.
Supplicate busy beavers who never seem to sit.
Still, I contemplate wondering if old saint nick
is runing from some cunninly, horrid past.
Looking through a pane of glass
in a vast house not yet my own.
This I know, awaitng the first stone.
In a house, not a home.
Still alone, always alone
as it should be
query me why, there softly I shalll never reply
with work its quite sardonic
this mine attempt at being larconic
Do you see the irony?
of all the powers that be
when they refuse to see
or believe in what is plainly
Their only hope is to see
us all hang from a rope tie dyed in a chalice of sour blood
Unless we cry uncle
but how do you repeat such merciless defeat
at the hands of so few?
1 percent to be precise is responsible for every single tear of all yours and yes my peers
Less we put down any