The Love Song of Frederick Usher
Haunted towers and fallen houses,
Tell tales with bricks and mortars:
Of scions spun by sprouts of spouses,
Slogging limbs for quarters.
Each day is spent in catalepsy,
Metabolized days in seconds.
Meant for manufactured folly,
That Frederick Usher reckons.
In a nameless, numbered working wight,
In his capital-crafted, corporate culture,
Taphophobia fails to fright,
In spite of vivisepulture.
Knowing not what nor who to fear,
By the hand of advertisement,
Has made this nameless numbered sphere,
A ball for disfranchisement.
Masquerades and predilections,
Ancient artifacts of arcane dictions,
Democracy deigning occasioned elections,
Propagandizing peoples' predictions.
How old and long is this ongoing show?
Each season is getting worse.
The cast of castes continues to grow;
They've little time to rehearse.
Still we clap in silent applause,
Echoed in telemetric fashion.
As if some mandatory laws,
Keep this heap of trash in.
Ah yes, this so-called garbage place,
Named by its felon king,
Failed to cancel his putrid grace,
And bend to kiss his ring.
Houses haunted by his tower,
Fall for tales of what was great,
Buried alive for peddled power;
His hope's disguise for hate.
Copyright ©
B.J. Fitz
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