Hang Them In Your Head

I hear you speak of betterment;

Your goal to serve your fellow man,

Yet I fail to see anyone’s needs being met but your own,

As you rip the aid from their hands.

Food, shelter, care: all cordoned off,

Because no coin ever crossed your palm?

Your needless hoard is giving way.

The weight of your greed, it cannot sustain.

I know damning your name

Won’t change a thing.

Still, I’ll cherish the peace

That dreaming of your death brings.

Thrones are not built on empathy,

But a willful lack thereof.

As for those who inherit them,

Know that their comforts, gilded and profane,

Compound while yours just slip away.

Heavy’s the gold that adorns your hands,

Such that it keeps you from lending one.

The fortune of others but a squandered yield

That slipped your calloused grip.

Just how do you sleep

When your wealth breeds their want?

It’s sickening to ponder

How many peons have knelt before you

All so that you may walk on their backs.

Hang them in your head.

When there’s nothing left to feed on,

At least there’s always you.