The Broken Prophecy of Ocher Manacles

It is time:
time for war
war against the shackles of orange aprons.
War against the cerebral comatosity,
war against death for the dollar
for the blood curdling hours
of shame, despondence, misanthropy.
War against the self-immolating properties of stasis,
of a slow burn inertia of listless ambition
of paper knowledge worthless of the green paper bled for it.
War against myopic visions of compliance,
of spineless acquiescence and willing ignorance
of suffocating potential stifled under normalcy.
War against the system of thought imprisoning desire,
for the fabricators of impossible dreams and boundless entitlements,
for the stage of birth and death–-the iron-clad roles inhabited–-
stuck within the strata of ennui.
War against the fictitious lines demarcating a sense of self-indulgent self-importance,
of tempestuous bouts of lie after lie, intravenously fed through cancerous multimedia.
War against the master-plan gone awry,
against the simpleton prophecy of a nation
birthed in idealism and sustained by it.
War for war’s sake,
for a change impossible,
for a change unfathomable,
for a change straddling the precipice of ultimatum
where deplorability is the harvest reaped.