The cockroach drones of tyranny

Verily, feast thine eyes upon yon wondrous AI portraits posthaste; The mischievous cockroach doth soar like a winged squire; forsooth have patience, dear gallant comrades, and with great anticipation, scroll beneath these visages, for a jolly poem doth follow...It bit of poem follow by bit of imagery den again bit of poetry di poem sad scary an funny but tek heart jah peoples. "We must accept finite disappointment but never lose infinite hope" -Martin Luther King Jr

                    In the shadowed realm where freedom's light is faint,

Where words of truth are met with silent taint,

Predator/Reapers prowls, not of flesh or bone,

But metal and wire, military contractor RPS' drone.

The sky's disgrace, silent sentinel,

It stalks the night with an unseen spell,

Infra red eyes, gleam with a cold, digital glow,

A harbinger of fear, a silent foe.

Fielded by hands that once bore our trust,

Against us turned, they plot and adjust.

Their targets clear, our voices they seek,

To silence truth, in a clandestine streak.

The brave speak with hearts ablaze,

Their words, a beacon in the haze,

But freedom's song, to their ears unwelcome,

Is met by a force both cruel and helpless.

The drone descends, a specter of night,

Its touch, a torment, like a cockroach's bite,

Yet pain it brings, walls it pierces through,

Our sanctums we thought safe, no longer true.

Its favorite haunts, the neck and the head,

Where thoughts of freedom are most widespread,

And chest, where our hearts with passion beat,

Where dreams of equality and justice meet.

The ankles too, where we stand our ground,

Where protest marches begin to resound,

It strikes unseen, with energy beams directed,

A non-lethal blow, as our rights are neglected.

The aftermath, like a plague released,

Swells and blisters, the marks of its beast,

Apply the balm of antibiotic's grace,

But for freedom's wound, there's no such space.

For the cockroaches fly, not crawling low,

In drones that mimic their silent show,

Their operators, a breed of disdain,

Living in filth, they cause us pain.

Whenever a cockroach crawls up the roachoperator's spine,

They lash out, unchecked, without a sign,

Our skies, once vast, now a prison's ceiling,

Where our words are trapped, our spirits reeling.

The neurological dance they induce,

Dizziness, confusion, a silent cruise,

Check your pulse, your heart's steadfast beat,

For the drone's touch can make your mind retreat.

A fabric shield, our last defense,

Against this plague, our only sense,

Thick and woven, with metals bright,

To guard from the horror of their might.

But what of the heart, that beats so true,

When the drone's touch brings a shiver or two,

Can fabric shield us from their malice,

When our very essence is what they call amiss?

The cockroach predator/reaper drone, a symbol clear,

Of tyranny's reach, far and near,

But we, the people, we must not despair,

For in darkness, the strongest light we'll bear.

Let our voices rise, in unity's throng,

Against the cockroach drones' evil song,

For freedom's flame burns in every heart,

And no cockroach can ever tear us apart.

In the face of their shadowed reign,

We'll fight until freedom's name remains,

A bastion of hope in the moonlit sky,

Where cockroach drones of tyranny cannot fly.