The Great Republic’s Illusion

 

The Great Republic’s Illusion

The government speaks in forked tongues,

whispers wrapped in gilded handouts,

a false democracy parading in the square,

where ballots are cast but voices are lost.

Social groups clash like tides against stone,

the most intimate buried beneath the weight

of a world that trades kisses of hypocrisy

for silence, for submission, for control.

Where is the leader who heals the land,

who sees the rivers and the breath of trees

as sacred veins of a dying body?

Health and earth, one wound, one fate.

Anarchy flickers in the broken homes,

in the slums, in the ghettos of forgotten names,

where deformed souls, shaped by the void,

claw at the fabric of a dream long stolen.

Globalism swallows whole nations,

feeding the machine of selective memory.

The conflict never ends, because it was never meant to.

Oil runs red where blood once bled.

And still, the great republic stands,

a blue house for foremen, a wall for the rest.

Plastic fortunes rise and fall,

the economy a trick of the hand.

Childhood dreams drift like ships at sea,

a fisherman casts his net into the void.

The little flower, once bright,

now a stain in the grass, trampled and torn.

Apocalyptic skies churn overhead,

climate twisted, altered, betrayed.

Spiral staircases enclose us in circles,

sacred symbols reduced to static noise.

What if I’m not a poet?

What if I’m an unreal product of an invented island,

a ghost caught between pacifism and war,

between conspiracy and surrender?

Are we dead, or are they?

The demonic data etched in desert stone

sings of exopolitics, of delivery, of nothing at all.

Where does the human spirit go from here?

-ER