In the twilight hours, a sense of eerie panic drapes the land
In the twilight hours, a sense of eerie panic drapes the land,
A silent fear, like a shadow of a forgotten truth,
Uncertainty whispers through the crumbling walls of once-reliable faiths,
Institutions that stood like ancient oaks, now hollow, fragile, trembling.
There is a Presidential Election, marked on the calendar,
Yet, the air is thick with a void, a chasm where a leader should stand.
No President, only a chorus of echoes,
Promises that dissolve into mist, leaving the soul adrift.
I felt free and chained in the same breath,
An oxymoron of existence, a paradox of hope and despair,
Like the cusp of an election, when the stage is set,
And all the crooks parade in borrowed honor, their smiles a mask of deceit.
You are beseeched to vote for the right man,
But who among the thieves wears the least tarnished cloak?
Freedom, a gilded cage, its bars forged from the illusion of choice,
Chains that shimmer with the false glitter of democracy.
In the labyrinth of my mind, thoughts flow like a river of molten gold,
Words melt into metaphors, emotions entwine with reason,
A narrative of consciousness, where every verse is a mirror,
Reflecting the melancholy of a world on the brink of change.
I walk through the echoes of broken promises,
Through the fog of lost certainties, seeking a lighthouse in the storm,
A beacon of truth in a sea of lies,
Yet, the horizon remains a blur, the future a shadow of doubt.
The vote is cast, a pebble in the ocean,
Ripples spreading through the turbulent waters of fate,
And I stand, free and chained, in the twilight of hope and despair,
Waiting for the dawn, for the first light to pierce the veil of night.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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