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Writer's pictureAdam Meskill

Brooding Capitalism

Walking alone in a frozen playground.

Broken murmurs echo from the beyond.

Generated from dreams that collapse way too early.

Beckoning the tormented soul,

inwards towards a crookedly stable house.


Creeks shout out from dusty floorboards.

Lights dim down to a sombre haze of electricity.

Before it kneels to its,

AC current deity and dissipates.

Electricity burst igniting the wick of a candle.


Misfortune barrels on, the candle, Icarus

flying too close to the sun.

Darkness illuminates at the end of a sputtering flame.

Growing more demanding with an appetite that longs,

to consume a lost soul.


Deeper into the shanty a room is illuminated by pain.

Society prays on weakened individuals.

Sucking and sapping individuality,

replacing the lost with the mentality

of being a drone, losing grasp on spirituality.


The sanctum grows brighter,

empowering the might of the invisible hand.

Dark pain closes mental shutters,

just to wake up lost.

Tormented by a vile nightmare

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