Epiphany in Oil

The shore lies broken, streaked with stains,
A shroud of silence hangs in the air.
The tide, as if in iron chains,
Draws whispers of tacit despair.

But still, they come with candles lit,
To plunge where shadows choke the sea.
A priest absolves the truth unfit
To pierce the dark where faith must be.

“The water’s pure,” one voice insists,
While tar lies thick beneath the wave.
Each ripple twists, each current lists,
A cemetery masked a hollowed grave.

Above, the Kremlin windows gleam,
A watchful gaze, austere and cold.
The master dreams his polished dream,
Where words are sold, and silence told.

Two tankers split, their hulls decay,
The years untended took their toil.
Now oil flows, a blackened spray,
That mirrors the cracks within the soul.

The sea absorbs the hidden cost,
The failure bound in hollow pride.
A spill of lives, a nation lost,
Where truth is cast and facts collide.

And yet, they wade, these hearts of fire,
Through waves where power’s shadow lingers.
Their faith, though noble, climbs no higher
Than what escapes corrupted fingers.

A seabird falls, its feathers slick,
Its wings weighed down, its cries erased.
The shore recoils, its breathing thick,
Its purity, like justice, is displaced.

A speech is made, the stage well-dressed,
To feign concern with careful art.
But power, unmasked, cannot confess,
Its core resides in a hollow heart.

Thousands toil, their hands worn bare,
Scooping sludge from a violated land.
Yet rot endures where none will dare
To break the grip of a ruler’s hand.

Faith shines, unyielding, in the fray,
But light alone can never mend
A world that turns the other way,
Where truth bends endlessly to power’s end.