I've seen pride in the oppressor.
That believes not in congruous consequences.
He holds an audacious idea of "Rules for thee, not for me".
Yet, to his shame, a bulldozer of unified judgement comes like a 'Bandit on the Bobblehead.'
Leaving no more room for repentance or further dialogue.
His power can cause both wreckage and tranquility.
It's for us to assess our intentions and curb our evil inclination that seeks to take control and become the very undoing of our virtues.
Our conscience is a great examiner and measuring scale for us to align ourselves to a blessed existence, lest the momentary pleasurable suction of the world enslave us and conquer you.
Evict the tenant called "Trouble" that seeks to occupy the spot between your ears and send it over to the one's it must dwell upon like a settlement that can't be shaken.
Ignore the bewildering voices.
The tenant called "Trouble"
// poetry
There's a tenant called Trouble,
Takes form in a plasticine bubble,
Lives at the center of the most splendorous king's head,
Spanning beyond Forehead to his dynasty, turning it to rubble.
The Creator's roaring might,
Must petrify anyone with a breath.
Frisk your intentions to curb innate malice,
Lest you sleep the sleep of death.
Like an Alphabet,
Is the writing on the wall,
The decree shall stop for no one,
On wicked prince and pauper from the heavens it shall fall.
This tenant called "Trouble"
Lives in the center of the head.
Any foreheads it inhabits,
It rerouted to the realm of the dead.
Like casks of fine wine,
Does wickedness taste fine...
But the spiritual agents of equilibrium,
Slap the wretched into orderly line.
It's a sign,
When the earth shakes and the waters roar,
Don't test the Creator,
He controls everything lofty to the earth's core.
Like a fire from a volcano,
Does the hidden agent explode like a devouring fire,
It stops for no megalomaniac,
It shall recede not before a foolish sire.
