The Wicked Souls Poem by Soran M. H

A sea-
a mirage in the mad eye,
its blue turned ash.
Night steals the day
in the gambler's gaze.
The sky-a mask
worn by the stars.
Silence-
the plot thickening
in a ravaged soul.
Clear water sours to poison
in the wicked mind.
How bitter the wild hills' honey
on a diseased tongue;
how salt the bread
on faithless lips.
A dark soul would blind the sun,
shatter every lamp
to see more beautifully.
The higher it reaches,
the wider its flood-
hate swelling into power.
Beneath the law's thin veil, it sins.
Lies are its politics.
Truth stands accused;
honesty wears the fool's shame.
A fox before the mighty,
a lion before the weak.
The sick would cure the sound,
blind to the rot within.
They say:
O Pen, your tongue grows long.
It must be cut short.
The arrogant lay claim
even to the air inside your lungs.
Then thought catches fire-
each drop of a word's blood
blossoms into a poem,
a curse seared
upon their brows.