“Dinner Over Graves”

They sip champagne over fresh graves— Calling it business. Boardroom teeth chew through famine, but pray on gold dinner plates for souls they’ll never feed. They drop missiles like loose change— And call it foreign policy. Suits bloodstained with flags they never saluted. I see men burn their conscience for a blue check, slipping into algorithms that forget the taste of bread shared between hungry mouths. Tell me— what’s power worth if your hands are too clean to touch the dead? I watched friends become profiles. Watched mothers learn war through buffering livestreams and bulletproof hashtags. Their pain? Aesthetic. Their trauma? A market. And still— you sit there, in glass rooms, serving genocide with hors d'oeuvres, flashing smiles while cities turn to shadows. But I won’t wear your mask. Won’t toast to your future. I’ll dance barefoot in the ashes you ignore— Name every name that you erased in PowerPoint slides. I’ll bury truth in the soil of my chest before I sell it to your charity auction. Let me break, not bend. Let me scream, not trend. Let me stay human while your world turns to algorithmic applause. And when it’s done— when your empire forgets itself— I’ll still be here, singing to the bones you called collateral. Sleep well, Architects of silence. Your ghosts have mouths.