fourth wall

hey.

what even is a static noise 

in a rather striking land they said were reminiscent of glorious days.

it must be devoid of times when they needed to pretend acting

right in front of a rigged lens telling a different story.

what even is a theater

when the set is just red paint and concrete—

motherland in the seventies

right after the opening curtain and only there.

what even is a protagonist

to a play absent of antagonists.

can they even play both at once, saving lives to audience keen 

while taking another once the curtains close?

what even is victory

if the script is scribed by the victors all along.

tyrants in crimson robes, scuttling after laurel wreaths and never flowers,

are those fangs masked under sheepskin?

the devotion from their pretentious generosity, they adore.

hey. 

listen to me. 

everything in here,

this isn’t real.