When tweets became triggers, and power played dice with the world.
The air was thick with static sparks,
A globe unbalanced, bruised with marks.
Lines were drawn, then redrawn deep,
While soldiers woke from fragile sleep.
Diplomats spoke in shadowed breath,
As whispers danced with thoughts of death.
From towers high with gilded halls,
A voice rang out through global calls.
No poet’s pen, no scholar’s prose,
But tweets that struck like hammer blows.
Bluster roared where caution died—
And peace was drowned in rising tide.
Trump stood tall with narrowed eyes,
The world around him split in cries.
Trade wars sparked like flint on stone,
But under that, a darker tone.
Iran enraged, Korea stirred,
Old wounds reopened, hate conferred.
He thumped the desk, he shook the floor,
He called for arms, for strength, for more.
“Let fire rain,” the echo rang,
And steel birds soared with missile fangs.
Allies faltered, foes took aim—
The world would never be the same.
On the brink of World War Three,
Bound by pride, not destiny.
One man’s will—a nation’s might,
Now painted skies with warning light.
The Middle East, a blaze of pain,
The oil fields weep like acid rain.
Asia watched with tightened fists,
Europe prayed through clouded mists.
Africa paused, and Latin lands
Prepared to dig in deeper sands.
The oceans churned with silent dread,
As mothers wept beside their dead.
Embassies turned into tombs,
And cities slept in bunker rooms.
What sparked the fire? A reckless tongue.
A thirst for power, bullets flung.
What purpose served by prideful rage
That lit the fuse on history’s page?
Once wars were waged with soldier’s cries—
Now tweets and tariffs blind the skies.
No diplomacy, no retreat,
Just headlines soaked in iron heat.
The generals warned, the scholars wrote,
The people marched, the artists spoke.
But none could slow the fevered hand
That sought to “make things great” again.
From factories to fallen plains,
The world bore scars like rusted chains.
Nations teetered, hope grew thin—
A global game none dared to win.
And still he rose before the press,
In tailored suit, a nation’s mess.
“No regrets,” he said with grin,
“Strength alone will always win.”
But tell that to the shattered homes,
To refugee lines and broken bones.
To daughters lost and fathers slain,
To cities drowned in soot and flame.
A moment lost, a world unmade,
By unchecked pride and threats displayed.
On brink we stood, on edge we fell—
A march toward man-made hell.
And in the ash of fallen light,
A question echoes every night:
What price is paid when ego leads,
And justice bends to warlike deeds?
No glory gained from wrath unbound,
No victory in battleground.
Only silence, stained and still—
The aftermath of unchecked will.
