Poem no. 3

The cake full of their inane, ripped-apart souls
While the kettle whistles, it achieves what's a goal
Aggrandizing their power for which they defy
Abusing for what's called greed, equality's denied

The cake, settling down from sojourning in the oven
Cooling down the temperatures as hope descends
Now, for time calls the end of quieting the innocents
Since they've settled as well, sugarcoating will extend

Now, putting the icing so later people won't know
Of what was a debacle in which trusts have gone low
So, they won't judge, and continue on unnoticed
Wondering as to what it is, behind is the malice

The icing of the cake, palliating a long history
Now it remains hidden, cutting its transparency
Since the latter society will not notice ever again
Will the cycle repeat as well? Hopes may descend
© alxita