Politicians Poem by Connor Anderson

The enigma which binds me still;
An ostentatious knight who would journey to kill.
Lay ill the demise of Earth’s precious gems,
A catalyst for the dragons undaunted stem.
An old woman would pry his confidence -
A crowd would subordinate his presence.

These odysseys are his prison,
But these frays are an inner prism.
Through the graves the winds are blowing.
As he journeys on the unknowing.
Dragging the myriad with him -
Whom are obliged to drag their kin.

From the passing of the seasons;
And all those dirty treasons.
Another knight was born,
From the earliest time of dawn.
He mourned the others’ grave,
And then laughed off his escapade
As our children find out again
That this is our coming end.
The illusion of choice and borne of despair,
Silly children, this is our lair.