Not All Who Cry "Lord, Lord!" (IV)
I sing of rot,
of coins without faces,
of votes that fall into the void,
of bodies without names,
of breath sleeping on cold benches,
of eyes eaten hollow by the crowd.
Dig in the words –
you will find bones,
silver ripped from the dark,
gold beaten thin as skin,
stones the lost dropped while fleeing the forest.
The witch howls inside the fire.
Wings snap in the air.
The frigid funeral home bitches rise –
black birds bloated with drink,
clouds split around them.
The champion stares into the world
with the calm of a coming storm.
The banner burns on her shoulders.
Vaults are broken.
Money screams.
The rich are chained into endless labor.
The gatekeepers are thrown beyond the border of sight.
Power grids go dark.
Hoarded wealth bursts into the streets like spilled blood.
Those who never feared
are stripped.
Counted.
Crushed beneath celebration.
Empires barter nations like meat.
Soil is swapped for slaughter,
Hungary & Slovakia for Ukraine
And history laughs in fire.
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-02-24 at 12:02
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
