Star-Crossed

Quemis

Rigid sick with endlessness,
Hexed by moment slow,
Find me in blind election;
Dissecting my own show.

Props I never purchased
Spill onto center stage;
Actors I don't recognize
Mime familial rage.

Curtains rise to sobbing,
And fall to rave reviews.
This tired masturbation
Fills all the only pew.

I've been inside this empire
Since I was pulled awake.
The magic weight of people
A potent portent make.

Go back and change the passion,
Take a right before the war,
Don't have those poisoned children,
Sentience a whore.

To be captured is a curse.
Don't sway to cloying smell.
Anathemas a flavor.
Imprecation a tell.

  • Author: Quemis (Offline Offline)
  • Published: June 29th, 2021 00:35
  • Comment from author about the poem: ... This was hard to write.
  • Category: Unclassified
  • Views: 70
  • User favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek.
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Comments1

  • L. B. Mek

    'Actors I don't recognize
    Mime familial rage.

    Curtains rise to sobbing,
    And fall to rave reviews.'
    'The magic weight of people
    A potent portent make.

    Go back and change the passion,
    Take a right before the war,
    Don't have those poisoned children,
    Sentience a whore.'
    Brilliant!
    yup those blinkered sheep of society's majority
    willingly surrendering, once again
    to the now twisted reality
    of politically hijacked Scientific and Liberalist mentality's
    poisonously: media addled, into zealotry fields
    of victimhood worshipping woketivist activism
    as a prelude, initial - first wave
    of strategically polarising cultural divisiveness
    to that aesthetically repackaged Marxist socialism
    with its inevitable promise of mass genocide, hypocrisy...
    just so blatant, so pathetic and so, so demoralising
    to watch everyone, simply accept it
    as it actualises into a tangible reality, gradually - daily
    hiding behind nihilism's cyclical nature
    of self-serving stubborn ignorance
    convincing those plagued with idiocy mentality's
    to 'burn it all down' like those forgotten sands
    of once indestructible empires...
    imagine, how the sun must be so - bored, of watching
    our generational re-showing: of self-sabotaging prowess...
    (such a timely and Brilliant write, dear Poet
    and thank you for inspiring my little scribbled reply)

    • Quemis

      I am glad you made this yours. Always love seeing you in the comments, Mek.

      : )

      Let the words flow.



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