A poem about a man unrighteously confined, who bides his time, planning revenge. |
Here I sit, all alone in my cell. Amongst chattering vermin must I dwell. The darkness sucks the warmth from my bones, As I lay in my filth, alone, on the stones. The turnkey comes to bring me "food", The likes of which only worsens my mood. His torch's light sears my darting eyes, As I prepare in my mind a nasty surprise. These men who have taken everything from me, From home, to work, to family, Deserve only the worst for what they've done, To me, bringer of truth and harmer of none. A producer I am and always shall be, Despite the nonsense they always decree. For I rule my soul, my mind, my me, Not you, the mass that fails to see. And so I sit, and wait, and sharpen my blade. With my life, my time, my heart have I paid. And so shall you, you scum of the earth, You mindless vessels that have no worth. Remember this when you preach sacrifice, For in no person can be found a greater vice. Every human you strike down, each one you oppose, Will never surrender to his irrational foes. No, rather, he will bide his time, alone in a cell, Until one day he will all of you fell. Not with the gun, nor the whip, nor the sword, But with an idea, with the truth, will he end your horde. |