Self-referential #6

 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. 

Annie Ziyah Attacks

Annie Ziyah would drink tea

but wrings her hands incessantly.

Hunched and bunched and bundled in her cardigan

she is the plague of panicked whispers behind pleasant conversation.

She is “what if?”; “what then?”; “this could go wrong!”

She is the worst conclusion jumped to

with a wheedle extra strong.

Eyebrows arcing over horn-rimmed lenses

Salt and pepper ‘do resembling avian garden fences

This sorceress of scandal wields her spells with devastating zeal:

Raising pulses, stealing breath,

 clothing stained by seeping sweat,

memories wiped, voices silenced

over-ridden by ‘boom-boom-boom’.

her gristly grip gets hold.

You feel the suffocating room

close in around you and as the blackness swells-

you’re overwhelmed

Annie Ziyah sips her tea,

dips eyebrows momentarily

then raises them, a new disaster hatched.

She’s ready to fight the next match.