Dystopian Winds

Battle, Friction, Transition, all commence.

the wind interrogates -

Bullying its way into

the folds of her coat, and

Channelling its unwelcome fingers through her hair.

 

The Free Lady walks on.

 

Frayed puppet strings, flung and torn

Whistle past her ear -

A synthetic song: made at a time not long ago,

But similarly an age away,

Is extracted from ears, replaced by the sound

of whirring klaxons from loudspeakers.

The lies sung before are drowned in a sea of darkness

where the albatross flies in red.

 

The Free Lady does not halt.

 

In a bitten tree,

The sinews of a community

Rip, tear, and shred themselves on the jagged bark:

A knife-edge over which

The airs of Liberty are placed –

 

The Free Lady does not see, hear.

 

Dark clouds roll to meet her.

She is naked in defense -

The storms flow outside the teacups,

Twisting in a wicked time

With the blaring of the future song -

“A warning!” - too late!

 

The free lady is cut.

 

Her free blood spilt.

The cold concrete shows no mercy on her body.

An ugly stain is purged with

The same Mechanical Efficiency

That tightened its grip as we spoke.