No, Phillip, I won’t be draped
in red-or-blue parade;
the screen hums like a hornet’s hive,
its truths all shadows made.
For though I vote with weary hands,
the echo’s just a hum—
a stage for all the masked demands,
where outcomes never come.
a-leaning on the edge of thought—
(flickering lights ignite)
the bulletins and breaking news
dissect the endless fight:
(ding! ping! buzz! spin!
hear the headlines bite.)
a-scrolling through the threadbare scroll
of digital daylight.
If suits and ties who forge the laws
were lashed to feel our ache—
if every keystroke drew the blood
their tweets and memos take—
perhaps the world would spin less mad,
its gears not fed on lies,
and every slogan’s hollow cry
be silenced by the skies!
Staring into pixelled truth,
I marvel at the maze—
a billion hearts, all shouting loud,
still wander in a daze!
(click! clack! doom! bloom!
chaos fills the gaze.)
the algorithms feed the fire,
each dawn another haze.
They call this age a gilded dream,
of freedom’s holy fight—
yet ask the soul, and it will scream
beneath the neon light.
The cause, my friend, was never ours,
though banners fill the air—
for those who preach, behind the glass,
don’t breathe the common care.
Someday, perhaps, this earth will spin
without its charlatans—
when Phillip, Sue, and every voice
reclaims their simple hands.
no screen, no flag, no polished creed
shall tether what we are:
a world unbound, its fractured hearts
set free beneath the stars.
:: 12.07.2024 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 