Moon at Half Past Noon

Do not imagine rust, or rot, or filth,
or any vulgar, squalid scene.
The new world’s edge is polished to a silk,
and falls as a Gilded Guillotine.

The whisper is a soaring prayer,
of glass and light, and graceful, clean design.
The music swells in perfumed, structured air,
and every measured, marching step’s in time.

The uniforms are tailored to the soul,
a dignified and purposeful array.
They offer you a sanctioned, single role,
and wash the messy choice of thought away.

Resistance here is not just simply crushed,
it’s made to seem… unseemly. A disgrace.
A discord in the symphony, a rushed
and clumsy stain upon the perfect face.

For what is uglier than a lonely voice,
that rasps a different, dissonant, weak word?
When you can join the magnificent, unified noise,
and feel your own small self absurd?

The horror is not in the boot, the blow,
the scream that tears the social fabric through.
The true, deep horror is you might never know
you lost a thing, or ever wanted to.

You’ll live inside the sonnet and the spire,
and kiss the hand that holds the subtle chain.
You’ll love the boundaries of your own desire,
and worship what has sanitized your pain.

So praise the clean, the quiet, and the sane,
the anthem and the banner, high and bold.
The most eternal, perfect, sweetest reign
is one you volunteer to hold.

O, the Gilded Guillotine descends,
not with a roar, but with a soothing chime.
And the prison where your free will ends,
feels like a paradise, for all of time.