The Hunters of Their Own Minds

 

With crowns of arrogance you stand,

from crumbling thrones your voices call.

“Higher, purer, better than you!”-

but your shadows stain the ancient wall.

Your gilded masks, though shining bright,

hide fears you dare not speak aloud.

Your echoes fill the hollow halls,

a fading strength, no longer proud.

You hunt the dark-skinned and the women,

reducing souls to forms to seize.

A human isn’t human then-

just something bent to your unease.

With shuttered eyes and hearts of scorn,

you judge and never understand

that beneath the surface each of us

shares the same wounds, hand in hand.

But silence breaks;a rising swell,

a bloom of truth begins to grow.

A story forms, a stronger voice

to sweep away the ancient woe.

For truth’s light cuts more sharp and keen

than any blade you blindly wield;

and words, though soft and unseen,

will make your hatred break and yield.

So let My poem question you:

“What sin resides in being born?

Is fault in skin, the outward mask,

or in the gender we adorn?”

No, sin lies in the hunter’s heart,

the mind that craves to dominate;

the eyes that chose the foolish path

and learned not love, but only hate.

Let pages rise like mirrors clear

and force your gaze at last to see

that chains you forged for others

are chains within your own debris.

For worth is neither hue nor shape,

nor found in vessels mortals keep.

It lives in kindness, warm and real,

promises the spirit keeps.

And when your legacies turn to dust,

history’s voice will softly cry:

Those who built on others’ pain

were those we learned to pass by.

For justice is a seed we sow

in soil made rich by gentle grace,

and brighter futures start to grow

when love returns to claim its place.

So hear the rising voices now

against the shadows of despair-

for every soul beneath the sun

deserves a world that learns to care.