Poems for Luigi
By the pen of fate and the shadows of deeds
Beneath the sunlit halls of Ivy,
Where laurels crowned his name,
A scion walked with promise bright,
Yet burned with quiet flame.
To surf and seek a healing tide,
He fled to shores of gold,
But pain etched deep into his spine,
A bitterness took hold.
“The land of plenty, a hollow dream,
Its people robbed and bare,
The costliest care that coin can buy,
Yet death still lingers there.”
He scrawled his rage with trembling hand,
In ink, his heart laid bare:
“The mafiosa steal our breath,
And sell despair as care.”
No longer could he bide his pain,
Nor let his wrath subside,
The gun he took, a final word,
To strike at greed and pride.
“Brutal honesty,” he wrote,
“The first to make them see,
The shadows loom too large to fight,
Save through acts like these.”
But blood was spilled, a fatal shot,
A man lay cold and still,
And with that act, the scion fell,
A slave to his own will.
The echoes of his dark lament,
A warning, sharp and clear:
The fire of justice, unchecked,
Can burn all that we hold dear.
And now they speak his name with scorn,
A coward, not a knight,
Yet whispers linger in the dark,
Of wrongs he sought to right.
Oh, Luigi, what path you tread,
What soul you left undone,
A tale of fury, loss, and pain,
Beneath a fading sun.
Ripples in stagnant waters
A fleeting breath, the tides withdraw,
My rage returns to stillness.
The world, corrupt, yet endless.
I vanish,
But its sickness lingers on.
The coins that weigh the healer’s hand,
Cannot measure a life.
The strong grow fat, the frail are crushed—
A bitter price for progress.
Oh fleeting stars, I sought your truth,
But found a ceaseless void.
The waves once sang of solace—
Now silent beneath my grief.
This act, a stone in stagnant waters,
Its ripples soon to fade.
Judge me kindly, or judge me harshly,
Both will pass like autumn leaves.
No justice blooms from hatred’s seed,
No peace from wrathful hands.
Yet still, I burned to make you see—
What fire consumes, it brands.
The wind will scatter what I leave,
This note, this fleeting life.
But when the final toll is paid,
Will healing rise from strife?
Angry winds howl through steel and stone,
The towers of man rise cold and hollow.
Shrouded in shadow, a lone voice lingers—
My blood boils against this unyielding fate.
The gilded titans feast on the spoils,
Their hands unwashed by the tears of the weak.
They whisper of “progress” to the deafened crowds,
While the sick lie silent, forgotten in dust.
O bitter truth of a crumbling land,
Where healing is weighed by the weight of coin.
The parasitic giants claim they save—
Yet the fields of life lie barren and scorched.
Beneath the heavens, where greed reigns supreme,
I stood in the abyss, my purpose unclear.
What strength remains in this fractured age,
Where justice is but an echo unheard?
The price of my step, one loaded trigger,
A sound that cleaves the tranquil air.
The titan falls, and the hour stills,
Yet silence offers no vindication.
Will they mourn a man or curse his name?
A martyr, a villain—what does it matter?
In their glass towers, they watch and mock,
And the masses sway as reeds in the wind.
This era, a storm where nothing is sacred,
The people’s despair now tangled with rage.
The wealth of nations, a hollow shell,
Where life itself becomes a game of debts.
I cast this stone, knowing its weight,
But ripples alone cannot shatter the sea.
Who will arise to cleanse these waters,
To lift the veil of gilded lies?
Fame and fury are but fleeting flames,
Consumed by time’s indifferent hand.
What remains is the specter of truth,
Its voice a wail in the tempest’s heart.
Now the hour fades, my body is still,
Yet anger endures in the blood of the earth.
In the quiet, I ask of this broken land—
Who shall mend what greed has torn asunder?
The tide rolls back, my soul departs,
A shadow among the endless gray.
But to those who hear, these words remain:
The sickness lingers; the reckoning awaits.