Buried Under Bureaucratic Rubble Poem, by gray0328, at My poetic side

They handed me the pages,

cold and swollen with nonsense,

sentences puffed like dead fish

on a polluted shore.

A simple thought strangled,

wrapped in jargon’s iron fist,

bleeding meaning across margins,

smothered by self-congratulating smoke.

The words didn’t walk,

they staggered, tripped,

drunk on their own importance,

dragging me through the sludge.

A recommendation, they swore,

hiding somewhere beneath

this mountain of marble

chiseled by pretenders.

I looked for the pulse,

for something alive,

but the heart had stopped,

drowned in its own vomit.

They asked for opinions,

but all I saw—

a grave they carved

with pens full of poison.

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