Pay
Shadows keep on shackling us down.
Reality keeps on advising our mass persona.
Walking awkwardly, crooked gait – a duckling dance.
"1,2,3, follow after me," the golden coin entranced.
Trudging on, broken feet weighed down by ball and chain.
Mouth sown shut, maggots won't be spewn out.
Eyes rotted from sockets; we've forgotten what the plot's about.
Keep on marching to the old tune transmitted terrestrially.
Keep on working fingers to the bone – just one more scrap of paper.
Dark circles under eyes, stare at screens promoting razorblade dreams.
Try as hard as you may, but unreachable goals are never what they seem.
Undead to rotted ideals, we march long after we've fallen apart.
Zombies born of greedy hearts – implants by society scientists.
Keep on following passé patterns, day by day, waiting for the end.
Showoffs' fake smiles. Nod. We don't have legs to lend.
Tomorrows' trash – a dump of wasted parts.
"When will the hearse come for me?" All wondered.
Even though we met every standard, they had lied,
if we can't pay the ferryman to get to the Otherside.
YOU ARE READING
The Dragon Became a Modern Poetaster
PoetryPoetry is a dance of words, a guise of flesh, and a reprise of thought. The myths of old are forgotten on modern tongues. Such adventurous spirits seek new vessels - fresh words to don and call their own. We shall write them home, you and I. Let the...
