Call Me Winston
Published in
1 min readApr 16, 2020
I watch myself upon the telescreen
and wonder on which story I am based —
a cause without its brother, traitor, queen,
a rebel only downward from the waist.
The rocket bombs paint grey my hometown sky,
the shrieking sirens scatter through the smoke,
the streets beneath me reek of death, and I
can only mourn the body that I broke.
This higher brand of selfish cannot last
(though so it seemed when I first made it mine);
the thought that tempts to renovate my past
intends to make it harder to define.
How black the market of my mind and yet
it seems I’ll still remember to forget.
