The corpse we crafted
Architects of delusional youth,
blue print dreams in wake of futility.
Hopeless romantics, still cling frantically,
to silver screen projections of reality.
We, smoke the packaged bones of this
fruitless land; growing contempt for
seeds sown in oil.
Still born roots, smother their mothers,
procrastination can infect a nation.
We, promised land.
Sworn enemies of truth.
Hereby.
Hereafter.
Surrender our minds,
so the vacuum of control falls to you.
Death letters from the Sun,
condemn parasitic moons,
the star struck swoon,
yet often, last to be exhumed.
-Poeta