4 to 1

These malformed deficiencies of my soul

Pull the strings of judgement, condemnation

Navigating a fractured landscape, blind

Projecting my own discretions tenfold

Crashing against the meat shields

Of manufactured outrage, manipulation

The dissonance is staggering, spewed

From mouths wired shut, collapsing

Burning into one another, tossed about

In the shaking of the jar, as the hand

Of the marionette smiles above us

While bets are placed, and numbers called

39 comments

  1. Fantastic, River. I love ‘Crashing against the meat shields… of manufactured outrage’. Beautifully crafted poem. Love the picture too. 🙂

    Liked by 3 people

  2. Beating our chests in futility. Listening to the master manipulator call out the numbers. Falling in line. Doing exactly as was expected of us. As we were told. Gambling when we already know the outcome. Sic lines. Really enjoyed this one. I’ve literally read it twenty times. No exaggeration.

    Liked by 2 people

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