Ink Idle

Usurper of gullible eyes,
Bearing a pocket full of lies,
Comes around at noon, stays over
Till the moon, flirts with souls
Buys and sells them like flies,
Brandishes contracts out of thin air.

Oligarch of garlanded thieves,
Filters words through a sieve,
Actions muted by a moot campaign
Sends fools on a marshy lane,
Sends them scampering for gold,
Archives their souls within a mould.

Angel of the destitute’s demise,
Armed with pockets full of artifice
And a bouquet of hemlock, leaves
Without a trace, has no discernible face,
Only a plastic name, clear intention to maim
All sense of compassion and camaraderie.