We The People

Pain of a thousand unnamed chains
thrown invisible over my back.
Echoes of a thousand two-toned words
reminding me of so many meaningless attacks.

All men are created equal,
yet we shall never know the essence of same.
History is a wheel.
The only thing that changes are the numbers and names.

We revolve.
We devolve.
We build up in the name of that which is Unsolved.

And still I hear a thousand screams
lost in pages colored red.
Still I am confronted by a thousand riddles
left by those living and now dead.

Do you hear the scratching pen?
It scribbles over a millennia.
Do you think you are privileged enough
to elude its everlasting stamina?

The ink has lasted a thousand years;
it has been held by a thousand hands.
It will bless you,
enslave you,
begin you,
and end you.
All due to the warrant
that time commands.

The crash of a waterfall,
of a thousand years still to come.
Whose names will the pen spotlight?
Will they be saved or undone?


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