This Line of Code

I’ve searched through my trauma,

and it’s not in my lineage —

at least, not overt acts.

I lift the layers like finely

carved puzzles until it’s here,

etched into societal lines.

When I say, get fucked,

I’m not referring to a loving

exploration of tender intimacy.

My anger wakes me in the darkest

night, when I’m locked away

from celestial songs of harmony

by these walls, this ceiling

cage of desperation.

I don’t consider

mediating or compromise.

I’ve labelled this being evil

and I’ve loaded my gun

and killed.  And I’ll remind

 you, it’s not a solution

(I’ve never owned a gun)

or a last resort in my ancestry —

unless you examine war records.

My compassionate heart could never!

My logical brain wouldn’t even!

These chinks allow

an expansion in space

making room for this camouflaged

assassin breathing me.

Triggered by every televised

murder: the news, crime shows,

glamorous police detectives —

and let’s be frank about

the huge profits from the pull

of this directive.

Once upon a time, this discovery

would shock me into denouncing,

maybe try to yank it out.  Still

today I’m a calm heretic.

I spread my findings

at the zenith of this cold

calculation of constellations,

finally seeing the pinprick

in the reality informing me.

That’s a clever one.

That one can herd anguished

hearts straight into prison

— heels nipped by profiteers.

Have you wondered,

where are the roiling protests

of the oppressed masses?

They’re playing games

or locked away or entering the next

war zone, programmed

to defend the coffers

of the coders who keep

the insertion steady, relentless,

while we run like

ticking clocks

to this line of code.

Inspired by:  Zenith, Glamorous, Heretic and Camouflage.

Published by

Victoria Stuart

I'm a poet, philosopher and inner seeker. A giver, lover and a healer who studies the heart.

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