Each Call For Justice Wanting To Atone Poem by Mark Heathcote

Put in the wrong hands, we might as well write
our short premature obituaries
many don't have the power—apatite
Who can we trust as our emissaries?
Enemies of battle are troubled to slay,
What is feasible, and what can't be sustained?
The evolvement of ego is swordplay,
always knowing what is or isn't ordained.

Pawns are we not moved on the field of war?
Dispensing judgements without solid grounds
valuing one thing above another - norm
undoubtedly, it's all brainwashing sounds
the ammo of tongues letting off six rounds
failing—always to value—equally all
not trying to stand out amongst the crowds,
not trying to break the law, that protocol

Rank and file, yet demonise all they say,
players' actors on the stage of right and wrong,
the blind leading the blind—don't all betray:
all-receive; count the same 13 tiles of Mahjong,
doubling opponents with each crushing blow,
each call for justice wanting to atone
Is righteousness shouting, He/she's cocksure?
I'm right. You're wrong—it's time to be dethroned.