Semi-True Stories Pt. IV

Cue unnecessary
sequels, tired
Hollywood fanfare, a square
dance in
superfluous circles.

The monsters have
been quarantined or killed. Our demons were laid to rest against their will. Those windows into our dysfunction have been closed off at every junction. Our kingdom awaits judgement for the nature of
its prayers.

But someone has
revived the denouement, a closing storybook because one corner was somehow spared. If we take another look, they said, we can spot their descendants, equally unrepentant, trying to add
to legend,
like gods themselves have beckoned them
to care.

And the elders spoke of a door, while holding the key, that guards all of life’s nightmares. Don’t open it, they beg, don’t sentence us to speak of the horrors so many died to
banish.

We’re already at the
mercy of famine, sandwiched between
insurgencies, national emergencies and
a government trying to
sell off our
despair to
the highest bidder.

In a cave northwest of their
bitter tongues, a girl much
younger slips a golden
key
into Pandora’s Box
and twists.

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