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
