The Call Beneath the Iron Gate
Beneath the weight of gilded towers,
Where gold blinds the eyes of current "lords",
The sick and poor lie still, unheard,
While parasites feast on their final breath.
“These parasites simply had it coming,”
I wrote, my hand steady, unshaking.
The world, I knew, would turn its face,
Blind as ever to its decaying soul.
What worth is life to the men of coin?
Measured in ledgers, sold for grain.
The healer’s halls, once sacred ground,
Glimmer false with paper gold.
“The U.S. has the #1 most expensive healthcare system in the world,
Yet we rank roughly #42 in life expectancy.”
A bitter truth, engraved on silence,
A failing empire of glass and greed.
Behind the walls where shadows scheme,
Their power grows like rot on the vine.
The feast of greed consumes the land,
While a thousand cries slip into silence.
The sword of justice, long laid to rest,
A rusted blade in a crumbling sheath.
I rose alone, against the tide,
To strike where gilded power sleeps.
No banners waved, no comrades cheered,
Just cold resolve, a hollow calm.
My patience carved this path unseen—
“Elementary social engineering, basic CAD,
A lot of patience—it had to be done.”
A humble hour, the final meal,
Cold iron forged from patient hours.
A 3D hammer, a silenced strike,
Borne not of madness, but of truth.
From shadows deep I carved a path,
Silent footsteps on tainted earth.
Again neither banners wave, nor comrades cheer—
Just righteous anger, cold and clear.
The gate is closed, they drag me forth,
Chains around a man of dust and fire.
Call me madman, fool, or scourge—
What I have done, the sickness earned.
Upon this hour, I cried aloud:
“This insult to life is known, endured,
Yet left untouched by all who see.
The world decays, and none will fight!”
Call me madman, call me scourge—
The world, asleep, sees naught but sin.
Yet I, awake, had dared to cry:
“It’s completely out of touch!
An insult
To the intelligence of the American people!”
Beneath the moon, beneath the law,
I spoke of truths none dared to voice.
And though they cage this mortal flesh,
My act remains—a fading spark.
“Decades ago, many illuminated corruption and greed—
The problems remain;
it is not an issue of awareness,
But power games at play.”
Let justice rise beyond my fall,
For shadows cannot shroud the sun.
The leaves will drop, the tide will turn,
And silence, too, shall echo loud.
The spiral notebook, scribbled hands,
Forgotten words that stain the earth—
“Frankly, these parasites simply had it coming.”
Beneath the gold, the rot endures.
Oh winds of time, bear forth my plea,
For what is flesh but fleeting dust?
I vanish like the morning mist,
But truth endures—unchained, untouched.
My words, they call an insult’s edge,
My act, they name a coward’s hand.
But who will stand, in coming dawns,
To sweep this sickness from the earth?
Oh moon, reflect my sorrowed cry,
Let spiral winds my voice convey—
“This world decays, and none will rise,
Thus I alone have struck the sky.”
And when the morning mist rolls in,
They’ll cage my flesh, condemn my name.
But truth endures beyond the grave—
A faintest echo, whispered still.
And in the halls where power slumbers,
May cracks yet form within the stone.
The parasites taste silence now,
While I have pierced the heart of night.