Poem #1

The City of Thieves

They say the winners write history,
I sit filled with pins
This is hardly a victory.
A voiceless winner
Is the best loser
And an even better victim.

You, the winner,
Sung your lies
Like an anthem
And the world believed you.
I am a villain, crucify me,
But you will never hear my side
If you do.

You, the winner,
Whose greatest success
Was a city built on graves.
Me, the loser,
Who lies beneath.
It is loud in the city of victors,
The streets flood with timid ghosts.

You, the winners,
With your crowns and your jewels
And your chained up fools,
Your greatest kills
Are the ones nobody knows about.
A perfect crime
Is not a crime.

Us, the losers,
Hang in rows
On the branches of trees
In the woods where you found us,
And killed us, and strung us up
In your twisted pride.
Did, because you could,
Its quiet in the woods,
Its never been quiet before.

One day,
The ghosts will awake.
The morning will come
And your city will crumble.
The woods are ringing
With hushed voices of quiet victims
As we run from our cages
And sing like birds set free,
And flee like a fish that meets the sea.
One day, we will be free:
That is the real victory.