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Of Fists and Iron. 

Tired of mere
memes and hashtags, 
they gather en masse

for peace yet in violence,
to polarize or to build a bridge:
at this point they don’t give a shit.
They meet enemies to share
wine with or to chew
and spew glass at.

Just hold back.
Hold back. 

No. No more.

Many gathered as one.
Overwhelming numbers.
And not for the slaughter this time. 
Posters and signs. Pent up, they’re reaching
for, curling fingers, white knuckles:
they’re fist-fucking the sky

to the soundtrack
of growling, howling voices
drowning out
that dull noise of the daily grind,
the machine of their oppression 

Just hold back.
Hold back.

Blood for blood leaves
one dehydrated or bloated.
The iron rule seals its own doom,
for it is the path of suicide. 

Fighting fire with fire
just feeds the flames
till all
and everything is reduced to a sea
of ash with smoke blanketing
the sky, walling off our sun
and smothering us.

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