Hereditary Sore
by Sam M. Phillips

See you stare,
Cannon fire eyes,
The last flare
Before your demise,
Dice roll death rattle,
Iron bolt in skull of cattle,
Chastise chattel,
Old battle
Between serf and lord,
Nature has the last word.

Your sword drawn,
This oath sworn,
Worn down son,
New era has begun,
You’ve done
Enough damage,
New generation can manage
Without you,
You’re through,
A hollow husk,
We’ll bury you at dusk.

Musk of the dead,
Heady aroma provokes memory,
Gory details,
Never fails
To conjure up the spirits,
Merits of new lord,
Ability to drive the horde
With blood and fire,
Greed and desire.

Liar makes a good politician,
Quickly manoeuvres into position,
The situation same as before,
A never healing hereditary sore.