Woebegone thy vestigial wafture,
scarred and left punctured,
the flag in tatters, a susurrous wind,
thee snake is sempiternal.
Suffering at the hands of the seraglio,
the serpent head cut by an imbroglio,
a deception of the harbinger,
an imbue of unknown fear of the future.
The classless cut by the furtive,
their forbearance of struggle,
is glamourous to the richly few,
while others suffocate by an elixir.
Erstwhile the eloquence of deception,
thy demure shall rise and expose the assemblage,
to those beleaguers, forever left with,
Don't Tread On Me!
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Poem / True Confessions
Poem / War and Military
Poem / Poetry
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