It's Still Life

Without Sense

I am tired

of men who grin
while cities burn,

of suits
who call it strategy,

of flags
used as shrouds.

I am tired
of the loud
being mistaken
for strong,

of cruelty
dressed as realism,
of madness
given microphones while

decent people
count coins,
ration heat,
and bury children.

Do not ask me
for balance

when the scale itself
is broken.

Do not ask me
for patience

when patience
is what they feed
to those with least.

I know rage
doesn’t help.

Still,

something in my bones
refuses silence —
something old
and human

knows theft
when it sees it,

knows power
with its boot raised,
knows the lie
that says

this is simply
how the world works.