The Descent of Liberty

Beneath Westminster’s grey-stained spires,
The wheel of policy grinds our bones into dust,
A bloated beast, with laws spun from wires,
Coiled tight with venomous bureaucratic lust.

Elderly souls count pennies in trembling palms,
Taxed twice to keep the coffers fed.
While cold hands grasp ancestral farms,
Spirits broken, land bloodshed red.

Entrepreneurs pack bags for foreign lands,
Start-ups flee like whispers in a storm.
Treasure Island shackled by fumbling hands,
Burying seeds where hope once warmed.

In hollow chambers, debate becomes a mime,
Soundless screams pass through lifeless lips.
Policy inked in deceitful rhyme,
The ink of betrayal that drips and drips.

“Come for a chat,” the constable grins,
Non-crime etched in trembling files.
Liberty’s skin stretched thin,
Each smile masked with Kafkaesque guile.

Parliament convulses, a clockwork jest,
Where minutes churn and reason drowns.
The monstrous dance of tax and unrest,
A procession of clowns in tattered gowns.

Dark words echo down cobbled streets,
The farmer lost to silence, his land to fate.
A thousand voices in protest beats,
While Orwell’s ghost weeps at the gate.

A government failing, imploding within,
Rote schemes and blind masks lead astray.
Minds enslaved in logic’s grim spin,
As night’s chill devours light’s last ray.

And so, we march, heads bent to the storm,
Through corridors drenched in despair’s stain.
Darkness festers where laws deform,
Till the cycle begins again.