Ghoul

We are all just commercials,
Showing ourselves online,
Putting our best faces forward.

Ghoulish versions
Of who we want to be.
Warped
In a glowing mirror.

No one is real here.
The puppet strings
Reach,
Their code into our hearts,
And play our blood cells
Like keys on a piano.

Veins streaming
With desire
To nourish.

Watching, imitating
The eyes of sheep,
Waiting to be shaved,
To have their coats harvested.

Pay to get paid.

Sacrificial chamber,
Praying at its altar.
The altar is you.
Where?

There is no need
To pilgrimage anywhere.

Objects mean nothing.

We bow every time
We open the screen.

The glow fills our eyes,
And we connect,
Not with each other,
But with the idea of
What we think
Will make us rich,
Wanted, adored.

It’s a fantasy.
It’s mind control.

We all know it.

Unlike religion
That we fear
And believe to be real,
We know this unsocial social world is false.
But we line up because it’s too
Alerting.
The light too bright
To ignore.

We walk through the portal
Over and over again.

Minutes, seconds, hours,
Years, days.

It’s a comfort.
It’s a plague.

All so we can sell ourselves to each other.
Or are we actually selling ourselves
To ourselves?

Trying to convince
That we are more than what we actually are.

Preferring any warped
Representation
Over what we actually are.

Better to be anything else
Than face the venality
Of whatever we are.

What is more terrifying?

Too scared to ask the question,
For fear of knowing an answer,
Or even hinting at one.

So we sew
In an oversaturated market.