Paradoxical

 

the voices of impaled promises is our Sonnet

 

These walls.

They sequester us

with the devil’s eulogy

This city.

It is not

for the faint of heart

 

These ashes.

They will scatter

o’er the horizon

 

These words.

They compress wishful thinking

Into midsummer fables

 

 

*Where was I?

 

These workers

They toil in the heat

of the scourging sun

 

the streets

are adorned

with garbage

 

 

The sound

of wailing children

is our lullaby

 

We salvage what we can

like we have been taught

always.

 

millions have been owed

since the moment

we were born

 

we give our lives

for the futility of togetherness

how paradoxical.

 

who can rescue our lost soul?

the answer

also paradoxical.

 

These streets are loitered

with decaying bodies.

Yours and mine.

 

listen to me,

they say

“I am not the voice of reason

 

Allow me deceive you

Give me control

all of you.

 

Give me the power I yearn for

Your happiness

under my command

 

meh,

You weren’t using it anyhow

 

Let the sound of cymbals

echo in the market square

 

 

Just like old times,

when you were at  the barber shop

or

when you grooved to Fleetwood mac on the radio.

 

 

like when you wanted to be Maya Angelou.

A harvest of fear

entwined with survival

 

Except now I own you

Your mind

is my property

 

 

Go ahead, feed me more.

 

 

 

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