Doctor's Prescription For The Asymptomatic Blind

I can’t write of hope

in a world —

that sells drugs to the sober

and democracy to the clinically insane,

that peddles art as escape

to the artist,

the muse,

and the bemused,

that rewards delusion

in the denial of the failed

and the failing.

I can’t write of revolution

in a world —

that trades the many

to entertain the few,

where the few string together

“fair” and “nice”

like puppets of convenience,

that births voices

breathing fire and rage

until rebellion is

bought off in cash

and kind.

I can’t.

But I must.

So I write —

not of rescue,

but of rot.

Of the ugly,

and the filth,

because hope won’t cure,

and revolution won’t change.

But behaviour is basic —

and basics don’t mutate.

And if you believe otherwise,

perhaps

you and I inhabit different worlds.

But if you insist it’s the same,

tell me —

do you see the death and the decay

as much as I do?

And if you don’t,

would you consider

changing your ophthalmologist?