Plague of the Day

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permanent scowls chiseled into stone faces,
eyes erased of all light,
all blank stares and empty expressions

apathy and then a giant leap
to the opposite end of the spectrum,
making tiny nothings into massive somethings

debutantes gaze into mirrored glass
and bet their lives, their futures
just to hear more intangible sweet nothings,
dependence becomes the fashionable norm
and that "mad" virago is disregarded and discarded

the world must revolve around something,
who is that axis?
entitled, entitled,
deserving of everything,
unquestioning, not asserting,
sitting, waiting, watching,
and not hoping,
but drinking deeply from wells of despair
as the debutantes line their eyes and paint their faces,
the gents don masks of a million expressions,
and yet their faces say nothing

the plague and malady of the day,
ever-spreading,
infecting otherwise logical individuals,
halting all reasoning,
slowing the progress of a generation,
threatening the fall of an empire





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