The Banquet

They dine where maps are drawn with gilded pens,
Behind the drapes where silence tastes like wine.
Their treaties ink the death of nameless men,
Each clause a blade disguised in formal line.

They speak of peace with tongues that sharpen steel,
While counting grains of gold beneath their floor.
Their hands, well-gloved, no honest wound can feel,
They crave the scent, but never march to war.

The drums they beat are far from where they sleep,
Their sons are spared the mud, the smoke, the toll.
They coin the dead and measure what to keep,
Then sell the flag to purchase back the soul.

They build the stage, they cast the role of threat,
They name the foe, then arm him in the night.
They strike the match, then act as if they sweat,
While others burn to make their ledgers right.

Oh you, who cheer when banners start to rise,
Beware the feast that feeds on borrowed breath!
The hand that salutes also scripts the lies
That turn the wheel and decorate your death.