Sour Grass
by Angry Albino
They still eat the sour grass,
teeth dull from chewing lies,
mouths foaming with borrowed thoughts,
eyes dim beneath hollow skies.
They line up, bleating on command,
for comfort wrapped in rusted gold,
for sugar-laced obedience
and safety bought and sold.
We watch in silence, cursed with sight,
awake while others dream—
not dreams that stir the soul to rise,
but those that choke and scream.
No monsters roam the world tonight,
just men who wear their skin,
who traded fire for flickering screens,
and called surrender “win.”
Sometimes I hear the Earth exhale
beneath the weight they bring,
and wonder if she longs for peace
in the absence of everything.
But even now, in shadows deep,
one voice cuts through the haze—
not all sheep sleep through poisoned fields,
and not all truth decays.
The Boy in the Ash
He does not speak of names or kings,
Their thrones lie buried deep in dust.
Their gods were fire, forged in screams—
Now silence claims what bled from trust.
His footsteps fall through broken stone,
Each echo sharp, like glass in skin.
No prayers are left, no cries, no home—
Just rusted myths and scorched machines.
His axe is not a weapon now,
But memory, and rage made steel.
He drags it through the sacred ground,
Where none are left to beg or kneel.
He crushes crowns without a thought,
The holy writs, the war-born lies.
He is the ember they forgot—
Still burning under ashen skies.
No banner waves above his head,
No anthem greets the dusk he treads.
He walks where faith and empire bled—
Among the smoke, among the dead.
And as the last cathedral falls,
He turns, his back to fire and lore.
A shadow child with no one’s god—
Just echoes in the shattered core.
