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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Dark · #1906388
A graphic narrative about the decline of our civilization.
We Are Locusts

A graphic narrative about the decline of our civilization.

Edited by Livingston County Writers & Critics Support Group

I walked along the street today
I felt despair in every move
Yes, every sound; the darkness of despair
There was no life I could perceive
Only mindless movement like locusts on a leaf
There were no homes where children played; where mothers loved and taught
For children left their mothers’ breasts taken by counselors attired in state-issued tweeds
The children went to state group homes and were taught to mouth the doctrines of state-imposed order
It takes a village to raise a child as march they did in erythematic strides
Their laptops in their hands
The community loves us, this I know
For our teachers tell us so
We are strong, but I am weak
I am what the leader wants
What I feel death count for naught
We are happy and secure though I feel an angst inside
I log on for I must die
There is no “I”
There is only “we”
In formation we doth march
Logging on to songs proclaiming paeans to those who feed us everything provided
We feed in praise of the community
Locusts we are, marching in formation
Singing to the one who gives us leaves to eat
We bleat like crickets on an August night
Mesmerized, we sing in adoration of our leader
In the city there are no homes, no families, only dormitories where music blares hybrid chaos black metal and rap gives birth to screaming chaos from the pit
There is a sign above the dormitories emboldened red letters saying “always allowed except solitude and celibacy”
There are no books, there is no art, there is no song, there is no rest
There are no pets, there are no tears, for there is nothing to lament
There is no “I”
There is “we”
People do not talk of life or share their dreams
There are no dreams to share
I see people come together groveling in sadomasochistic orgies praising the community
I walk to the cemetery
Where are the tombstones of my parents?
The graves are gone
A caretaker points to a building; huge it is
Like a mausoleum unseen since the times of Pharaoh
I walk into the building
I see the bodies of my parents and grandparents being sculpted by the body worlds’ artists
Everywhere I look I see sculpted corpses
Sitting, reading, cooking, dancing in parody of living beings
The body world sculptor observes me and says, “This is our memorial. There is no ‘I.’ there is ‘we.’”
Outside the sky is dark
We are the locusts who have eaten the land
Transmuted life into death
Wonder has been lost and no more does the need to know prevail

Word count: 443
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