by Elizabeth McGinn on March 4, 2021
Poetry
by Sam Ward ’21
Patience, we feel,
These lies write for
Themselves. Pay homage
Or pay the price, we
Play for numbers,
Not for keeps,
Raise the bar.
This entry cost is steep.
Invaders in the pantry,
The enemy hangs wreaths
On your own front door.
Distracted, gaze fixated on
Screens. How can it be true?
At once so literal,
In a self-defined landscape,
Where beauty paces the meek,
Checks the balance on
Burdened precepts,
Like kite strings cut,
Sunny day. The rain
Doesn’t care who they are
Or how they got there.
Emphasis on significant hours judged
Only by a thousand year convention,
Trained into recognition,
No choice, even if
The absurdity of truth or
superstition is in arm’s reach.
Expectations, this will be different,
Any time around the sun,
Another maze we have to run
And there’s no slowing down.
And of course we’re all lost.
Bad days frequent,
diseased brains seeking
Refuge in the rest.
Flourish if we’re nourished,
But the hand that feeds,
Craves our hunger,
Sustains on it, stained.
Ambivalence is the cost
Of finding peace, so to speak,
We settle for it.
If we bite, they’ll bite back.
Gaslit or seppuku,
Addicts on the coast who
Pander to middle.
Riding out on guerillas,
Or dragons, Adidas, winged victory.
Conquering collective’s riches,
They are not their own,
We are not our own.
Heathens on the bench
Scream, treason on their
Breath.