Motes

A single mote of dust in a room of dreams,
That is what we all belong to, to what we all return.
Colours mean nothing neither green white and gold or red white and blue.
Only the blood that flowed freely matters a burden shared by brothers and sisters.
Bells call the religious to order trudging their way wearily towards oblivion,
Spoon fed lies we dine on poisoned words whilst the privileged wallow in our 
Labours. Solidarity! Together we can change the flow of rivers.

The scaffolding of our past hides the scars of bitter memories,
Towns slowly die whilst Portas fascias gives the illusion
That our high streets blossom, 
The blood of youth drained by lack of a future.
Divisions serve the overlords, keep the masses at bay keening towards our throats,
Like half starved dogs; we crave the masters touch.

Cowered in urine soaked ghettoes.

Walls of peace helped reinforce stereotypes.

All of it lies!
The lord’s of calumny grimace at the thoughts of equality,
Teased with table scraps, manna from heaven,
The hungry masses tear themselves apart.
Every thought digitally encoded to ensure loyalty,
Granted a simulation of freedom,
Unaware of invisible strings,
The puppet masters tease until boredom reeks
Fetid meat, stale sweat and bitter tears.

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