Laid to Rest

Wicked is a patron whose mind is
Undone.
For there lies in his principles a
Wavering sun.

He will fear less when his pride rests
On its prop.
With propagandized pallor as his
Staple crop.

And yet he fails to recognize that
With the wind's soft blow.
His idolized image is but a clever
Silhouetted woe.

And the day will come when Truth
Bares its teeth,
Flinging its facts upon the frail
Fake sheath.

And like the child whose eyes ask
Mother in fear,
No reassurance will come as the
Needle draws near.

With screams of protest and o
Oscillating limbs,
He shall accept the dosage with an
Attitude quite grim.

But once he's realized the fool he's been,
That after the prick he grew healthy again,
I'd like to think his cheeks will blush red,
And we'll finally be able to lay the child to bed.