Moon at Half Past Noon

Consumerism’s teeth gnaw my tender core,
Its neon claws etch a barcode on my breath.
My wants, my fears, are shaped by its glare,
Ads weave desires I mistake for mine.

No choice endures its glittering maw—
I’m bought, a trinket in its endless vault.
From cradle’s toys to my coffin’s silk,
My life’s a ledger, bled of ink.

I tried to want what my heart once knew,
But billboards drowned my childhood’s song.
The market’s pulse, a silent whip,
Drives my steps through its mirrored maze.

My dreams are priced, my hopes are weighed,
Each thought a coin in their cold scale.
The stars are debts I cannot pay,
My blood a currency they drain dry.

But wait—my veins spark, sharp as flint,
A fire no market can consume.
I am no coin, no pawn, no prey—
My heart’s a hive, and I its queen.

I shred their scripts, my truth a blade,
Slice through the nets of custom’s weave.
The cradle’s ash, the altar’s dust,
Fall from my skin like a snake’s old hide.

My mother’s milk, a faded stain,
No longer chokes my rebel throat.
The mirror cracks, and I am not
Their puppet, doll, or purchased shade.

I am the river, carving my course,
The phoenix rising from their lies.
My choice, my voice, a molten flame,
Remakes my name in my own stars.