Disinterested

 

Are you hiding there
huddled hands behind
bricks of lies
formed in blood
built up in
fractured scars?
A disinterested
disinginuous pause;
bolstered bullets
blur between
blue lines.
Shadows naked,
as the restitution
rises over
scattered dreams
of nations
painted gold.
Is this what they
fought for?
Is this what they
died for?
Is this
the place we
stole and lied for?
A democracy.
Democratic
in its transpondence.
Complications that are
fed like hope
to cattle.
Wake up.
Holy Opiates
to subterfuge
the deluge of
bigger dreams,
better lives,
faster cars,
captivating
superstars.
Like a whisper;

We’re fading too.

 

©E.B. Johnson 2017

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