The crystals glint on glass windows, luminous blue and chrome on silver metals, colliding and collapsing on humanity’s inventions and forgotten, unknown, to the world.
All warmth is compressed into nothing-- nothing natural exists; fiery breath burns synthetic steam and, scorched, evaporates against the sterile electric pearls--
concoctions of death and loneliness prescribed to masses who know no better, healthy doses of abandonment and sorrow, convinced their eyes are distorted, curled
away from reality, razing insanity into the dusk of voltaic light bulbs, molten plastic, smoke rising from Mammon’s fiery gulfs-- white pills for nothing and everything tossed down careless throats, serpents unfurl and find themselves trapped in ignorance as we plead to therapists to save souls, like a captain going down with the ship, lonely children forever forced to twirl
their soft hips for the highest bidder, the misanthrope’s wet dream bleeding out on the first sweet month and then never again, children of the apocalypse, swirled into depravity-- nothing natural exists when silence breaks on the empty dawn, as men raise armies of virgins to fight for their unholy amusement, as the orphans of the carbon plague burn their souls alive, as blackest silence breaks on the frozen dawn of wretched entertainment-- art thou not entertained? cries the King-- maidens giving birth to death itself on silent stairwells, down back alleys, with nothing to live for, and nothing to lose-- nothing natural is allowed to exist as conquest breaks forth from her seal.
Declan Tatam is an eighteen-year-old amateur poet, playwright, and short story writer from Basingstoke, Hampshire, England. He typically writes about gender, race, and belonging, and love, loathing, and loss, and is heavily inspired by both his English and Irish heritage, James Joyce, Jane Austen, his mundane life, and two close friends.