I am so sick of all of it.
The corruption, the lies, the statistics.
I once was able to warn allegorically
but now I state baldly, in fact; categorically
That dystopian nightmare has crossed to our waking.
We're inside a hellscape of our own creation.
Cassandra I, scribed. The Mistress of Mince.
High on a hill girt by oceans of ink.
Foretelling it all in bouquets of verse
presented with the flourish of the under-rehearsed.
For now the flourishes will wait.
I'm overwhelmed and overweight
and spending all my energy
on the one who means the most to me.
Hermitage and happiness go hand in hand.
Watch my tail feather shake as I stick my ostrich head in the ground
It's more important to make memories.
Too late to warn of the future.
