Poetry
Iron Grip
What is it with white bird
He seems so unhappy
The world was once his
So he thought
He bent everything to his will
And things he did not understand
He penned up like chickens
Or passed cruel judgment of death
No longer does he have an iron grip
His subjects now look into his affairs
They too are evil overlords
With the same green reflections -
In their eyes
(A rewrite)
2024 nov 10
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