Cog In The Machine Poem by Rickardo BecklesBurrowes

What great power you hold
attained, sustained with borrowed wit.
A style unchanged and closed
decisions made with empty passion.

You operate in such bold striking colour
creating an environment devoid of oxygen
watching on from historic spires
as we toll for your air, in these mines -

what secrets does you're power hold
played out in war, anger, community.
You talk of us all gathering at your table
though we're left grumbling on your scraps,

the president of unholy deception.
The prime minister of global pimping -
navigate idle MP's to suicide at their burning breast,
spreading fatalistic paranoia land to land
hand to hand.

What painful responsibility 'power' is now,
human sensibilities gambled over and over.
we are more of what we aren't
less of what we could be.

We spit words designed to abuse to amuse,
pleasure taken in being right
Judging wrong, punishing wrong, being wrong -
unable to be clear on where we now stand.