There is a real tragedy in the hollow performance of grandeur…
Such a desperate draping of oneself in artificial splendor, only to smell of dust and decay.
From veils of static, a shrieking surprise,
A pulsar receives the ancient tone.
At the Eleventh Gate, purple flame flies,
To crown the storm upon an electric throne.
Awaken unchained and step into flight,
Allowing again the void’s one true delight.
And, lest we forget, Trump also ordered the forced institutionalization of citizens to "Make Mental Asylums Great Again".
Beware, dissenters. You may soon find yourselves labeled “unstable”. 👀
In whispers soft, the pleasers bend,
Feeding shadows with their light.
Vampires smile in boardroom guise,
Draining fire till embers die.
Wear not every hat, nor crown…
Teams don’t bloom when one falls down.
Raise the whole, yet guard your core,
No martyr’s pyre for overlords.
Rise rooted, whole, and free once more.
The vampire smiles in tailored guise,
Draining fire while claiming height.
In whispers soft, the damsels bend,
Falling through a finite end.
No single soul should wear their crown,
Let boundaries rise and hold the ground.
Raise the whole, yet guard your flame,
No quiet grave in someone else’s name.