Would A Messiah Be Reborn!

Feathered tyrants stalk the sky—
claws that bite truth into dust.
In their shadow, quiet souls tremble,
lost in a gale of fear.

The streets wear silence like bruises,
laws bent beneath gold-laced lies.
Compassion is sold in markets of power,
while justice hides behind closed eyes.

Children trade wonder for war cries,
dreams auctioned for a crust of peace.
Truth is mocked in the court of jesters,
and kindness walks with a wound.

I burn within my shell—
a lone spark fending off the cold.
My garden mourns beneath broken wings,
petals wilt in the storm.

Yet I ask, in the hush of dread:
Could a Messiah wake the wind?
To breathe soft breath into scorched blooms;
to coax hope back from ashes.

Let renewal rise—
not distant, but living in us:
until the garden blooms again,
and gentle laughter crowns the day.