The Modality Of Evil Poem by Shalyn Stachmus

Hey, freedom, come back!
Poor freedom turns black.
Oh, freedom! Dear freedom! is under attack.

I wish just this once I could take fear away.
I hope we'll soon see a more beautiful day.
Sensing a sick, saccharine despair,
I breathe in nothing but dusty, dead air.

Why am I crying? I choose to be alone.
This shroud of banality is never gone.
I do not consent to this hypocrisy.
But I guess I'll accept what I blindly see.

This masochistic culture breeds our defeat.
With loathing and tears, we just stare at our feet.
Inside their greed asylum, they wait:
Planning escape before it's too late.

Why do they quash any pure ideation?
Why do they keep destroying this foundation,
That was broken, that we rebuild every time?
No cause is given when one probes through their lies.

Why do we doubt any depraved things they've done?
Lost lives lay scattered, and it's only begun.
Seems it's our job to put it back right.
But what can be done without a fight?

Dear freedom, come back!
Poor freedom's turned black.
Oh, freedom! Our freedom! is under attack.