Bibyana Hurricana

Lost Republic


We’re all so sorry,

A polite salutation,

And a sorrowful farewell,

I don’t have much time,

And the time I do have,

Will disappear from my fingertips like a plague of moths,

Our hollow-eyed histories,

Have been crushed into the ground,

Like the shredded skin of a cicada,

This is all that’s left, If you do find us,

Do what you wish with us,

We don’t really care,

Share us with your world, Or keep us to yourself,

Our city is disgusting, Gluttonous,

Ruled by the exchange of material resources,

From the bourgeoisie, Down to us, The poletariat,

Our skyline is dimly lit,

With our lack-luster enthusiasm,

Our city’s ground is caked in dirt, rust, and grime,

Our citizens have finally begun removing the filmy layers of illusion,

From their luke-warm eyes,

There are a few people here,

Of whom I love,

Some who fear me,

And don’t forget the ones who wish me dead,

I didn’t ask for any of this, None of us did,

You’re born into it,

You grow up oblivious,

In shelter,

Then one day,

The harsh realities of this horrid place,

Hit you square between the eyes, Like an expertly aimed gunshot,

If my story were a movie,

I’d ride off into some fiery blaze of glory,

Down a stretch of desert road,

And out of this hellish wasteland that holds us, prisoner, here,

But this isn’t a movie,

These are the Lost Republic’s lands.

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