monsters of Oz

I’ve inherited a fortune of
maligned forces,
crash courses on moral abortion,

doctors biopsying portions of
my soul to keep
in porcelain jars.

I’m a Frankenstein
en garde, on par with Dracula
with none of his charm.

Melted spatula of
a monster yarn;
garments are sparse and
my heart mostly feels like
a half-stitch
measure.

At times a jester,
others doomsday
incarnate.

Even atrocities spawn their artists,
who’ve turned blood
in the streets into extraordinary feats.

I’ve never been wartorn,
never dug newborns from
neighbourhoods;
never questioned the good in this world
because of bullets
zipping by.

I’ve never had to choose
between living and watching
my children beg to die.

I’m a tin man in all but name,
averse to arteries,
vindictive to veins,
blood bonds
non grata with
undead armadas that appear all
the same.

But dig
under my skin,
and the shame runs thick.

Yellow brick roads are a
bait and switch, for the road to hell
is laid
one block at a time,
a colourful lie we picked to build over
the irony;

we’re all
monsters wandering Oz,
foreign policy clusterfuck
hearing the woods conspire
against us,

but in the end
it’s only ourselves,
because there
is no Wizard
at the end.

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