it seems like unreason
some buckled treason
that hangs in the chest
moving like a liquid shape
and closing the fist
what do we hold
but an imagined fullness
that is an emptiness?
who wants to be a burning flag?
who wants to be a hashtag?
these poems of the temporary world
the despair we feel as we regard
Ozymandias broken and scarred
trying to look proud
these things we will not say out loud
we are fighting against the shadows of ourselves
cast in the foundry of our own lit hearts
into the drunkenness where we are blind to our reflections