The Masquerade (poem)

 

A haggard, ragged cuticle,

A hair tuft, out of place,

A precious moment, wasted:

In your world they don’t exist.

 

In your virtual perfection,

With your pretty, perfect face,

Everybody keeps on smiling.

No bad smells or aftertastes.

 

Only one small thing is missing,

Only one thing that you lack:

It’s  my volunteered complicity

To help in your attack.

 

You’re repurposing my money,

You’re reprogramming my mind,

You’re steering me from the narrow

Straight back to the wide.

 

But does it not seem funny,

And does it not ring false

That your promised Triple Crowner is

A broken hobbyhorse?

 

That all your tactless hawking

Kills contentment, gives me less,

As you glibly strip me, piece by piece,

Of all my happiness?

 

Yet, still, your pale distraction,

Your strobing in the dark:

It masquerades as progress.

It masquerades as art.

 

Copyright 2018 Andrea LeDew