by Rana

Letters scatter in fear,

scramble in hodgepodge lines  as I crack

my lead whip against the thin,

flimsy white pulp. In formation,

they present their arms with a

still and silent salute

to the critical opposition,

ready themselves for the slaughter.

How will they fair? I wonder to no one

but the whip, now limp and pointed nowhere.

Like the rest. it quips back to me,

they are, after all, but the lambs of your mind.

Intended for greatness,

left in the gutter.

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