The Lampshade Writer

We cloak ourselves in silk and wool,   fasten the mask with polished hands.   Rouged cheeks, slicked-back strands—   we step into the temple of light.   Through the doors, a river of voices,   a chorus of hands pressed in greeting.   We take our seats in hallowed rows,   our voices rise, hymns on the wind.   Alleluia echoes through stained glass,   knees kiss the altar, lips murmur prayers.   The preacher, a storm in the pulpit,   rains sweat with every word.   The choir ignites, a fire of song,   we whisper *Amen* and scatter home.   But beneath the robes, the sorrow lingers.   The people remain—cracked vessels,   aching, hardened, untouched by grace.   They do not love, not even themselves.   Their wounds do not close, their burdens do not lift.   Then the veil was torn from my eyes.   I ...

The plague will rise again.   Once it is hungry, it will come for you.   It will feast on your children, maim your wives and daughters,   And when your screams have turned to whispers,   It will leave you naked and barren,   A husk of a civilization that dared to dream.   It has chewed the olive trees to pulp,   Spat their roots into the faces of the world.   The earth weeps resin tears,   But the court of justice is blind and mute.   No gavel can break the bones of tyranny,   No verdict can unwrite the war policies   Scrawled in blood and coded in steel.   The plague drafts its commands in diabolical ink,   Announces its hunger in broad daylight.   It does not whisper—it declares.   It does not hide—it parades.   Drones hum lullabies of death overhead,   Warships carve silence into the sea,   And Ch...