Politicians

In the grand theater of power’s desire,
Where shadows dance with a flicker of fire,
The players emerge in suits finely tailored,
Promising dreams, their vows never savored.

Their words are a river, smooth and beguiling,
Winding through valleys, deception compiling.
With tongues like serpents, they hiss, and they spin,
Unveiling their masks as they hunger to win.

In gilded halls where whispers reign supreme,
The air is thick with the stench of a scheme.
They plant seeds of doubt, like gardeners of lies,
Their roots are winding deeply where integrity dies.

A chameleon of colors, they adjust with ease,
To whatever shade helps them to please.
Yet beneath the hues, the truth remains stark,
A heart painted black, extinguishing spark.

On pedestals built from ethereal dreams,
They look down upon us, or so it seems.
With polished smiles and rehearsed gratitude,
They savor applause, a hollow interlude.

The grand game of chess on public lawns,
Kings and queens dance while the pawn's fate is drawn.
Their grandiose moves, a charade for the blind,
With backdoor deals brewing, unspoken, unsigned.

In the crowd’s roaring ocean, thunderous and vast,
Their sails catch the wind of the promises cast.
Yet beneath their vessel, a tempest brews,
Intentions that skew, like canvases askew.

A raven perched on the shoulders of greed,
Feasts on the ideals they hollowly seed.
Each beakful of integrity shredded away,
Till nothing but echoes of promises stay.

With the moon as their witness, they dance in delight,
In shadowy corners, away from the light.
The people, mere puppets, to strings they are hitched,
Ignored cries for freedom as fate’s yarn is stitched.

A deceptive symphony in a world grown cold,
Notes of betrayal in melodies bold.
They play their tune on harps of despair,
Each chord strums of power that they do not share.

Jesters of justice in courtyards of glass,
Their laughter rings hollow as the moments pass.
With fingers crossed behind velvet-draped doors,
Their acts unravel an endless score.

They wear the crown of ambition's sweet breath,
Pulling strings with fingers cold as death.
A puppet show spun in deceit’s tangled thrall,
The stage mesmerizes as integrity falls.

In gardens overgrown with false virtue’s decay,
Their weeds choke the life from truth’s fragile display.
Yet still they stand, with a grin so wide,
In the shade of the trees where conspiracy hides.

A phoenix of hope, reduced to ash and bone,
In the pyres of promise, forlorn and alone.
From the ashes, they rise anew each time,
With plumage of pretense, they veil their crime.

The horizon paints tales of new dawns to come,
But clouds of their making obscure the sun.
They craft with precision their tapestry of lies,
A loom that weaves truth’s demise.

Enshrined in marble, an effigy of might,
Cracks woven into its heart by night.
Their monuments of legacy reach for the sky,
Built upon whispers and empty as a sigh.

Inside the chambers of power, they scheme,
In a waltz of deceit, like a feverish dream.
The echoes of justice imprisoned in a cage,
A tempest of corruption, a storm of rage.

In masquerades of power, they revel and twirl,
A dance macabre in a world they unfurl.
Behind gilded masks, their intentions are sewn,
The seeds of destruction are invisibly sown.

Yet even in darkness, a flicker persists,
A flame of hope that, through shadows, twists.
For in every betrayal, a truth yet lies,
That dawn will break through the most clouded skies.

And so we stand, in the storm's eerie calm,
In the eye of power, the world is a psalm.
Our hearts, in unison, beat strong and defiant,
Against the winds of deceit, forever reliant.