The Death Traders

By Cliff Lake

 

The Death Traders

 

Red is their color,

Crimson and glistening,

Faintly foul,

It sticks to them,

It stains the thought.

 

Their emotions metallic,

Grating and grinding,

Unyielding and brittle,

With shuttered gaze,

And beliefs of rust.

 

Their agents loiter,

Collecting wage

Wet with blood,

Reeking of shame,

They will not concede.

 

They foster dread,

Feeding it malice

And ill intent,

Creating specters

That cannot be vanquished.

 

Fear is their coin,

And manna

For their masses,

An addiction served,

To make life seem worthy.

 

Violence the reward,

Whether fantasized,

Or realized,

The craving encouraged,

And draped in glamour.

 

These are the death traders,

Red is their color.

Hands offering filthy profit,

These are the monsters,

And they look like us.

 

Cliff Lake 5/7/2023

Copyright © Clifford Lake 2023

 

 

 

 

 

 

Location: Washington, DC, USA

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