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They say that we are as we ought to be thought to be:
Finished.  We say that we're not, but the words on
The walls in the stalls in the markets suggest that what
We are no longer is what we once were.  We are broken
And beaten.  We've fallen, despite all our gold-plated
Weaponry.  Peasants defeat us, and others we've
Ostracized thrive even as we urge our friends to shun
Them.  Now, in senescence, we dotter, and rivals brush
Past us.  Our allies, all aged and infirm themselves, ask
Aloud if they ought to seem less like our sycophants.
It doesn't matter.  When we die, they'll bleed, and the next
Ones to strut on the stage when we're vanquished won't
Show them much mercy.  They'll see they're enslaved,
But their fates will be preferable to what we suffer:  
Scorched earth.  All we are will be gone.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2022-06-11 at 17:53

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Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
A very 'deep' poem, Lawrence. It is actually an enlightening poem because I can tell these are heartfelt thoughts in your thinking, as I see shadows of them appear from time to time. That is not a criticism by the way, actually the reverse, I admire your honesty... and as a foreigner can quite well understand where you are coming from! As usual impeccably written.