Not much is happening
Now in this little town
Left behind by people
Who moved on when they
Had extracted everything.
Gary walks past the
Old plant, reminiscing
About he and his friends
Trading barbs while they
Assembled machines that
Made things happen.
All sense of purpose gone,
Nothing left but
Bewilderment,
Nobody listening.
One by one
They coalesce
Until they become
A noxious mass,
They follow
Each other into
The abyss,
Bringing everything
Else imaginable
Down with them,
Toxic cult of
Wretchedness.
Outward bluster
Masking inner
Insecurity.
Self-loathing
Wrapped up in
Defiance.
Acting tough is
Easier than
Healing one’s pain.
He has no answers,
So he surmises that
All one can do is
Judge coldly,
Based on no information,
A twisted perspective
Instilled by inculcation:
Rigid, inflexible,
Devoid of reason,
Disturbingly harsh,
One-dimensional.
Of the many
Choices available
To them, they revere
The ones that will
Cause unthinkable
Devastation to an
Unfathomable number of
Vulnerable people,
Just one of the
Benefits of never having
To think about anyone
But yourself.
Everyone they know
Hates someone from
The other side,
Yet they come together,
Make friends,
Share stories,
Discover how much
They have in common.
He fancies himself
Superior,
The smug emperor
Standing on the
Heads of his subjects,
Declaring that
They’re far better
Off with the
Prospect of
Illness and
Ruination.
Repositioning
Their masks,
Playing
Meticulously
Sanitized characters.
Time dutifully
Alters perception
Until it barely
Resembles anything
Tangible.
They try to go back,
But reality has an
Unsubtle way of
Imposing itself on
The wishful.
It’s painfully clear
That everything
We thought would
Happen will,
Depravity having
Its moment on stage,
Plunging
All else
Into darkness.
