The Mirage of Promise
The well is dry, but their tongues still plead,
Cracked lips shaping prayers the gods will not heed.
The land rots in surplus, a kingdom of waste,
Where hunger is measured and profit is praised.
They crawl to the mirage, ribs piercing their skin,
Eyes full of water that won’t let them in.
Gold liquefies, flesh withers to dust,
The towers loom silent—monuments to rust.
The promises of tomorrow curdle and fade,
A banquet of shadows, a debt never paid.
Yet still, they crawl, they bleed,
Swallowed by silence as the gods watch them feed.
Copyright © Aarron Tuckett | Year Posted 2025
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