Orwellian madness
became fashionably late,
thirty six years
from the original date.

Fiction is front page
and truth is just a stranger.
A platform subscription
with prevaricator entertainers.

The witch is dead?
Can this be?
My sister is gone,
so why am I happy?

Am I the wicked
and not the good?
Are these feelings I'm feeling
to be understood?

If the wicked do not rest
will she find her peace?
Did the evil she possess
get passed on to me?

There's a smile on my face
to mask my pain.
I will mirror the Munchins
celebration in vain.

"Ding ****!",  They cheer
parading down the road,
celebrating Dorothy
and her little dog, Toto.

She murdered my sibling
by her twisting home.
She came from Kansas
a place unknown.

Who is the child,
that is getting applause?
A demon to destroy
the Witches of Oz?

I need to send her back
with a simple spell,
back to Kansas;
back to hell.

I may be the next witch
on her list,
to eradicate
with a house that twists.

The Emerald wizard will answer her call.
For there’s no place like home, after all.

Go ask Alice in her padded cell
how she took a tumble and fell
down a rabbit hole of illusion
now don’s a straight-jacket of confusion.

Go ask Alice with her veins full of Lithium
how she surrendered to her delirium
of smoking caterpillars and a
grinning feline,
now attached to an Intravenous mainline.

Go ask Alice about her sanity
how it vanished in this asylum of rhapsody
in a fog that is translucent and hypnotic
in her Wonderland of painted narcotics.

Rhetorical theory
taking me over,
conspiracy meltdown
ticking composure.

Cranial seizures
convulse in time.
The Dominos fall
in a perfect line.

Tell me a lie,
I can believe.
Tell me a truth,
that will deceive.

The glass of my conscious
slips and shatters.
The story will end
when nothing else matters.

A contest for an added section of a children's book, Thelma the Unicorn.

https://allpoetry.com/contest/2741918-Thelma-the-Unicorn


Thelma's Response To Otis

I’m not. I’m not perfect.....

How dare you, my friend!
I am deeply offended!
Perfection is boring,
and flaws are splendid

I am a mosaic.
A broken masterpiece,
an abstracted rainbow,
authentic and unique.

My blemishes are mine
They’re what I want to be,
perfectly imperfect,
whimsical and free!

Sarcasm is my home.
It’s where I hang my hat.
My comfortable surroundings,
a prosperous habitat.

Cynicism are my shoes.
I tie the laces tight.
A thousand miles I will walk
with a jaded appetite.

Enthusiasm is my glass.
It is always half full.
Because life is so exciting
and unpredictable.

Nihilism is my coat,
I wear when it is cold.
It shields me from conforming winds
from a world that has been sold.

Skepticism is my hat.
I question everyone.
The brim holds a query
for civilized discussion.

Criticism is my mirror,
it’s the reflection that I see.
I judge it when I stand before
my harsh realities.

There’s something about cliché’s,
how they never leave my pen.
I sketch them into my decay
every now and then.

There’s something about banality,
the obvious trite remark.
I recruit into my personality
like a discarded counterpart.

There’s something about satire
and how humor causes grief;
to the audience, it aspired
from an egotistical belief