I.
People gather beneath a dead sky,
an audience carved in stone,
waiting for the hoax to end.
II.
Every eyeball fixed on the same horizon,
watching nothing,
become something,
become nothing again.
III.
The city is caving in
without making a sound.
A siren buried beneath concrete,
screaming through the vacant streets.
Leaving behind a silence,
so vast
it has forgotten how to be silent.
IV.
Behind the walls,
yesterday is fermenting,
turning warm and sour
around everything we forgot.
V.
I walk through the loop,
as if repitition were a law,
as if returning
could ever mean arriving.
VI.
Maybe the cruelest hoax
Is that we call this living
because everyone else does.
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Author:
The Skeptic (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 18th, 2026 01:43
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 9
- Users favorite of this poem: 𑣲┆cursed ˚.⋆ֹ
Offline)
Comments3
There is a feeling of purposelessness in this world where the past sours and one is isolated and not heard. Meaningless repetition leads to nowhere a treadmill where one finds oneself always in the same place. I like the fifth stanza that states this so well. Here the stone audience has no interest in listening less still understanding. No one hears the siren. Out of this rubble we call life we see the hoax but call it life too because others do and anything else they would not understand. A deep and dark write.
Indeed! You understand it!
I understand that understanding is not living and would wish for greater brightness
This has a bleak, damn hypnotic atmosphere, with the collapsing city and fermenting yesterday making the whole world feel trapped in decay. The final line hits hard—it turns the poem from an apocalyptic scene into a brutal question about whether repetition is really living.
Decay is only frightening when one realizes it has learned to move in circles. Thank you!
hihi I helped wwriting this : P
You were an amazing help ^^
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