It is a slow death,
non-living in this crooked house on the hill of hypocrisy.
Intended for the creation
of a humble gathering
— artists and poets --
this twisted bureaucracy
exists as robbers of decency; apathy stinks from power.
A false breath, illusions shared among the participating zombies,
sellers of a dream that turned sour.
The diseased air is partly virus;
deeper lies the spiritual deprivation of another authoritarian committee.
I will rise to imaginary clouds
of cotton candy and kindness --
a world at odds with yours.
Care, I insist, regardless of Evil, and build through struggle,
strength outside these walls of pain.
Tomorrow, I may dance, with my honest friends — on a blissful ride to Heaven.
Hinda-jonathan October 5, 2021