Madmen at our doors.

I hear the bells a'ringing

It's the unholy political hallelujah train

Chugging out foul and awful smoke

pollution blustering out its blow hole.

Call them what they are:

the door‑pounders, the oath‑breakers,

the men who mistake ruin for destiny

and call it leadership.

They arrive with their pockets full of gunmetal prayers,

their shadows long with unburied wars.

They speak in the lying language birthed of hunger,

the syntax of smoke.

They believe the world is a matchstick

and their hands were made for striking.

But are we helpless.

Are we the counter‑spell.

We must gather in the quiet-

to sharpen unhidden.

We breathe once, twice,

until the air summons us.

We speak the prophesies of what they fear:

mercy, witness, multitude, a new dawn.

And the words rise like heat from the floorboards.

Twisting themselves into something older

than any parliament of tyrants:

Ours is a refusal that glows,

a chorus that does not break,

a future that will not be drafted

in their fevered handwriting.

............

A storm gathers at the edge of the republic,

and the doors rattle on their hinges.

Madmen in tailored suits,

their pockets full of maps to nowhere,

their tongues sharpened on the whetstone of fear,

their wars always waiting in the next briefcase.

We stand in the hallway of history,

bare‑handed, bone‑tired,

yet somehow still luminous.

What shall we do with them?

Not worship, nor mirror them, not swallow their thunder.

We answer with the oldest weapons:

clarity, witness, refusal, victory songs.

Because poetry is the opposite of their machinery.

It refuses to march; it grows.

It refuses to conquer; it remembers.

It refuses to burn; it tends the ember

that outlives every empire.

So we gather -

the quiet ones, the laughing ones,

the ones who carry whole worlds in their chests---

and we speak in a language

no tyrant has ever fully understood:

A door is not a prison.

A people is not a pawn.

And a future is not theirs to ruin

if we keep writing it.

So when they knock again -

and they will -

we will answer with the steady, unburning truth:

Your wars are not our inheritance.

Your madness is not our map.

Your door is not the only door.

And we walk past them,

carrying the fire they cannot touch!