the great unravel
has begun.
the brittle threads
of the state now snap.
a body falls down.
the machine makes a new saint.
war is now holy.
the moral order
is inverted by the blood.
crime is called justice.

the liberal class
is long dead. no one is left
to stand at the gate.
despair’s fertile ground
grows a forest of gallows.
the fruit is vengeance.
the human contaminants
must be purged with fire.
the body is sick.

the fire you stoked
for the global south now burns
your own house to ash.
the empire trembles,
and now turns upon itself.
it eats its own young.
the cannibals have
the knives.
they are hungry and
they are coming home.

the final aesthetic
is not a painting or song.
it is the war scream.
you made this monster.
you fed its rage and despair.
now it knows your name.
i have seen this play.
i know the final act’s blood.
i know how it ends.
there is no hope here.
only the cold,
certain truth
of the coming night.