It was The Cascades of Blood and Roses
Blood flowing into the streets
A sign from the wealthy
Living in the castles on the mountains
A massive art project reminding the Peasants
Who was in control of their lives
The blood covered flowers
Rolled through the dirt paths
And cobblestone sidewalks of the little town
Filling the thresholds of bakery’s and tailor shops
A child bent down to pick one up and was briskly washed away
As the mother broke down
It was a decadent display
Meant to demean the people of the little town
To belittle their very existence
To keep them suffering for the basic needs they required
Scrambling and fighting to the death at times
While the rich looked down from their towers, amused
It was the same every year
The exact opposite messaging of Christmas
This was a holiday with no hope or gifts
No spreading of cheer or love
It was yet another mess for the poor to clean up after the wealthy had their fun
It was a statement, to signify what would become of them if they ever revolted
To rise against them would be certain death
Their suffering would be ten fold
Starving and screaming children
Mothers with no arms to hold their babies
And the Peasants believed this
Living in fear as to not upset the Rich
Doing every task and chore thrust upon them
It was reverent and willing
It was survival
What the Peasants didn’t know or care to know is that the Monsters on the hilltops were never real
The threats were an illusion, told by generations of storytellers and passed down through time
Their fear and compliance was based on lies written in a so called ‘sacred’ book authored by Peasants themselves, with a desire to live above, in comfort, without the brutal pain of labor
The folklore that had shaped their world and seemingly offered safety and sustenance was actually abuse, perpetuated by the greedy rich, obsessed with power
It was taught to Peasants when they were children
Babies with tiny brains, incapable of forming reasonable beliefs on their own
The fear grew into adulthood
The complacency was endearment, part of life
Shame and guilt were tools used to keep any opposing thoughts from otherwise capable brains
The ruse continually carried out by brainwashed Peasants themselves
And this for centuries, solar millenniums
Galaxies form and wither in the time of this betrayal
And yet no peasant rises
Afraid to question, afraid to change
In living fear of The Cascades of Blood and Roses