As the Flame Grows

Little fires across the world,

Burn slowly into more,

While the black gold spills in rivers,

Leading to a burning galore.


Flags fly high across the lands,

Generating their own gales,

To buffet and bow all dissent,

To conquer. To prevail.


Matches grow into bonfires,

Steel clashes as teeth do.

Spit fires and rips societies,

When tongues whip

– but to more than bruise.


Taps form rat-a-tat-tats,

Reloading against everyone.

The pen is mightier, they said,

So make it a weapon.


Blood writes across the world,

Dripping into seas.

Taps are stabs that twitter on walls,

Murdering from the safety of screens.


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