Politics is
raw meat in the Colosseum of
thought.
Poets have no business there.
Political rhetoric is tangled
in crisscrossed veins of ideology,
matted in dogma’s grey hair.
Political
prizes are big game,
majestic symbols of freedom,
slaughtered and
mounted
for sport and fame.
Politics is bloody tough
when well-done,
bloody when tender,
blood-sweet and salty.
Politics is the amplified grunts
of cavemen in
suits
holding guns
with scopes.
Politics is
not for me.
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