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The Living Dead

by Akankshya Narayan
(Bangalore, India)

In a grim blue-glinted space, I had an epiphany
That we’re the cursed chimes of time’s symphony,
Our minds are chained and trounced in this wretched confinement,
We’re slowly transforming into the follies of decayed rudiment.

And then, we’re bashed by the storm of cacophony and tales of woe
Yet our cries are a deafening silence, a shame now that we’ve become Renaissance’s foe,
The sonnets will soon perish by the walls of gilded monuments,
Capitalism has finally robbed us of creativity and sentiments.

These AI-generated philistines would never be able to comprehend Dante’s words
With arrows so identical, they’re killing all these mockingbirds,
A world full of futility, it seems,
Sisyphus is tired at last, will the new God spare him to live for his dreams?

What is there to choose that makes one so scared to lose?
If to not choose this, is to die, and to choose this is to kill our souls in dread
Then why are we still breathing?
To merely exist?
To live like the living dead?


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