Emily Isaacson

"Discover poetry through the eyes of Emily . . ."

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for a Dying Ukrainian Crown     by Emily Isaacson    


Wreathed in eucalyptus and sitting

at the window, she is Euphrates divided

in two. There is the Queen’s Wood

and the castle; here is the rabbits’ lair,

there is the maiden’s hair. 

The silence endows the trees,

the amber is thick with moss

and fog hangs midair.

 

One commentator,

and one orator—

the media is a fight to the death.

I must not give up. My sword is clean.

With every breath my last, I pledge

to defend my country. This country is

my soul, the very breath of it my essence:

the once stagnant aura of mediocrity

has shape-shifted into an oracle of power.

The very circle gives off its energy,

the vapours and perfumes of a former time

are deeply rooted in Jewish lore.

 

There is one station I meet

the requirement of: one diploma

that has been given me: one oil.

Lest I not carry it out

there is a sentence on Siberian Fir.

The death cult will

take you down with them.  

 

There is a new hierarchy here:

the one with the most gifts is at the top,

the one who receives the most packages

has power.

A white thunder through the door

is concussive.

I wish I had said in a

percussive way, “I won’t buy.”

 

Reference to quote:

"That is what happens to totalitarian movements and death cults once the spell is broken and their official narratives fall apart. When they go down, they try to take the whole world with them."

CJ Hopkins, article: The Last Days of the Covidian Cult  January 18, 2022

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