As they double tap the romanticized, normalized, propagated, famine-riddled, war-torn, image of what used to be a nation.
“I can't do anything, though.”
They say,
As they lounge, in their ancient blackbird-gilded thrones Coated in percolated gold
Resting, in a castle carved from native marble
“This sadness makes me tired.”
They say,
As they cast their cerulean globes to the ceiling that hosts crystal chandeliers dripping with privilege Shedding light On material exuberance In rooms painted in mirrors for the pleasure of viewing their adorned ignorance
“Oh, that's pretty.”
They say,
As they gaze through pellucid barriers at the romanticized, normalized, propagated, famine-riddled, war-torn, image of what used to be a nation.