Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Rulers

Was it you who taught the people to chant?
The boiling masses in frenzied cohesion,
syllable, syllable, syllable;
bleeding voices hurling forward to
an object not so different from
the rest of history, from images
hoisted above the crowds in crisp,
streaming colors, to tunes of mindless
worship of the man and his catchphrase.
We have sung for gods and warlords
in our time, dressed them in purple and gold.
Once in a lifetime is not so infrequent, as
the jubilant names are ever called
from different mouths, as lips form echoes
and the earth keeps turning in search of
something new under the sun.
You have taught us nothing, learned nothing,
held to nothing, produced nothing new to save us.
Nothing in cities or towns above, nor farmlands below,
where sheep follow after each other in endless repetition.

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