You promised hope
Yet it slumbers in a box.
And all of us puppets
Shall dance
to your strings
no more.

I wonder if my hands
Of grey, cynical taint
Could even put a stain
On your bright, white
Ignorant perception
Of the blackened cruel world.

Is the grass greenerOn your side than mine?

Do the oceans appear blue
To your muddy eyes
That only see the beauty
Depicted by fiction
When all of it is no more?

Would the red rage
Of the victims
of society
And those caged
Reach your filtered ears?

No, we have listened to
enough lies from you
While you sit, comfortable,
Behind that golden banner.

You promised hope
Yet it lies dying in its box.
And all of us puppets
Shall dance
to your strings
no more.