BONE DUST REPUBLIC

My rage tastes like rusted pennies,  
like the evening news scrolling its red ticker-tape of corpses~  
another ceasefire broken, another stock market sighing  
into its bourbon. My fists clench at nothing,  
at the headlines, at the mirror where my face sags  
into my mother’s frown.  

What good is a voice when the war machines  
hum louder than hymns? When the banks  
swallow pensions whole, grinning with marble teeth?  
I am just a congregation of one,  
preaching to the walls, while the politicians  
lick their knives clean and call it progress.  

I measure my days in pill bottles now~  
white capsules rattling like loose change,  
like the coins I drop into collection plates  
for causes that evaporate by noon.  
The world burns on schedule.  
My knees creak their betrayal.  

Some nights, I dream of revolt~  
of storming the palaces with nothing  
but a walking cane and a scream.  
But dawn comes, and I’m still here,  
sipping coffee, writing poems, scrolling~ 
another ghost in the algorithm’s feed.  

O, Bone-Dust Republic,  
what do I do with this fury  
that outlives my body?  
What do I do when the war  
is both outside and in,  
and no one’s left to surrender?

angeremotionswarfree verse

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