Photo Source: REUTERS/Eduardo Munoz via reuters.com

Looking upon the tough, Blue Shield in pain,

My lover’s life is cresting the dark west

Now, I pray for milk from the beast’s breast—

Knowing her passing propels the shield’s gain.

Contracts in ink betray the frail in vain

While the lively authors pad their vile chests

Each vow they swear is profit’s cruel jest—

A light to mankind’s ever-growing flame.

Yet storms will reap what the pig sty has sown,

A triumphant promise for many cries

Which, like Gabriel’s horn, makes mums vivid.

Blades must silence the wealthy tyrants’ thrones

As malice drains from their deceitful eyes,

But until then, No One Mourns The Wicked.