The dual pyres stare through the sun

behind which smoke and mirrors fool themselves

of un-bitter consequence

and torches line the alleys of mistrust.

The measly grip that holds the reins -

insufficient in its design,

must scream in desperation.

The sound of shovels cracks the air,

wielded by greedy crows that toil

at their repetitive chore.

There will be a time, and I can see it now,

the paper of the law will tear

and the tiger's stripes will blur,

when the spider bites the skin

it will be as if he was tenfold.

That bread if for the people

and yet you eat it by yourself;

that fish smells rotten but we consume it anyway,

don't worry, fear masks the odor,

we will recoil,

no one wants to pull the sheet off the haunting.