Empire with Bloodied Hands

Even the tallest tower crumbles when its foundation is built on bones.

They tell us it’s for peace,

their drones humming hymns of liberation

as schools collapse into rubble,

as white phosphorus rains like holy manna,

blessing the earth with ash.

“Democracy,” they chant,

while puppets dance to the rhythm

of oil pipelines and sanctions.

Freedom wears a price tag,

and it’s never theirs to pay.

Trump barks from his golden tower,

fingers itching for the button,

a circus act in a suit too large for his soul.

His rallies echo with the thunder

of walls and bans,

but the bombs fall just the same.

Biden’s hands shake with diplomacy,

Steady as they sign the next deal

to arm the oppressors

and call it protection.

Kamala claps,

her polished nails tapping

against the glass ceiling of genocide,

her applause muffled

by the cries of mothers digging graves

with bare hands.

They preach justice,

but their justice is a fist,

a boot pressed against the necks

of nations that dare to stand.

They bomb to save,

invade to heal,

erase to rewrite history in their name.

The stars on their flag

are bullet holes in the sky,

and the stripes bleed red

not from sacrifice,

but from the lives they’ve stolen

to feed their empire.

And yet, they point fingers—

at resistance, at grief,

at those who dare to say:

"This is not freedom.

This is not peace."

But the empire cannot stand forever.

Even the tallest tower crumbles

when its foundation is built

on bones.