I.
Coward?
Perhaps, but conflict
clenches me, fear torqueing in, dread
at the what next. Iâd like to believe that were
a threat present, I would stand firm, fight back, but bravery
must be practiced, or one just cowers within, awaiting the hard knock.
II.
Shit storms
gust across pixels.
Some lean in, cutting through wind. I
take shelter, waiting for the howling to die
down. Then, cautiously, peering past the shutters, I assess
risk before venturing out, furtive as a rabbit among raptors.
III.
Labels
adhere, try peeling
yours off. It wonât be that easy.
We jam each other in boxes, slam down lids,
pretend not to hear the battering from within. Strange that,
aware, we still rush to judge, slapping our sticky frog tongues on bright wings.
IV.
Scapegoat.
Are you willing to
carry everyoneâs filth beyond
the city gates? The whole community will
thank you for it, but you will be exiled, a pariah.
Your atonement wonât last. Too soon, another victim will be required.
V.
Dark screen,
power off, yet still
we feel it lurking, the menace
of the world ready to reach through and grab us.
How long can we withstand the pull, the one thing that always
leads to a hundred more, scrolling become a tic, even in deep sleep?