Suffrage, a right, but a petty detail,
It coaxes the soul into feeling less frail,
Yet all the control of a ballot and pen
Does nothing to stop you from hurting your friends,
Or missing your mark, or profaning your God,
It seems that our concept of voting is flawed.
You like that your leader is chosen to lead,
but, by whom? Does one vote really mean anything?
When the river of currency carries this dream
of democracy--and all it's trappings--downstream
to a sewered event of enormous prestige,
where your Seward intent is exchanged for your greed.
And you find all the meaning in casting your vote
has been wasted while companies stand on the throats
of the candidates freedoms, exchanged for their dreams,
The magic of voting is not what it seems.
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