The Sun Never Sets: It Just Blinds Them

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The air, it's not dust, 
It's the pulverised bones of every promise they ever choked on,
a fine, grey ash, gritty, like ground-down teeth, 
coating the back of our throats, dulling our thoughts.
We breathe their lies, a caustic fume, acrid on the tongue, 
a poison gas burning our throats raw, 
scarring our collective lungs to leather.

Truth, a whisper lost in the digital static, 
the endless scrolling,
a memory dissolving, 
like smoke from a burning flag, 
into a disinterested, apathetic sky,
cold and unblinking, like a surveillance camera.

Gaza, a ripped-out heart, still beating, somehow,
a phantom ache in this world's numb, gold-plated ribcage.
Sudan, a slow, red seep, the desert floor drinking it down, insatiable.
The earth itself weeping, a silent, crimson river,
unseen, unheard, by those whose ledgers swell in the silence.
Congo's ancient agony, a primal scream torn from the earth's core,
born again and again, a fresh harvest of suffering.

As fascism's shadow, a hungry hole, a gaping wound,
devouring light, leaving nowhere to hide, nowhere to breathe.
Only the gnawing dread, a cold, hard knot in the gut, 
tighter than any noose,
the ideology's chokehold.

The world, a shattered eye, refusing its own gaze,

its reflection splintered, a thousand shards of pain,
reflecting only their polished indifference,
and the rot of political corruption, 
a stench from every marble hall, every gilded chamber.

The visceral, gut-wrenching throb of each dying day,
a collective soul, rigor mortis setting in,
while their clean hands sift through digital gold.
This loneliness, a hollow echo,
a cavernous space where laughter used to bloom,
now only the rustle of algorithms, like dry leaves.

A digital desert, endless, unyielding,
no real water, just the mirage of connection,
a filtered, pixelated lie.
Alienation, a clawed hand, tearing at the sinews,
strangling the spark, under a synthetic sun,
a cold, dead light, humming from a lab.

AI whispers, a simulacrum's wet kiss,
a chill seeping into the marrow, colder than any grave.
Programmed comfort, a plastic embrace,
while human hearts, raw, exposed,
unravel, thread by agonising thread, on their curated timelines.

And the AI psychosis, a creeping madness,
The machines learning our despair, reflecting it back, amplified.
Real connection, a ghost in the machine,
a flicker in the periphery,
a fleeting shadow in the empty rooms of our lives,
the ones they built for us, isolated, atomised,
each a lonely island.

Hate crimes fester, a gangrenous wound on the body politic,
spreading, putrefying, the stench rising.
Women's bodies, a battleground,
their essence, their very being,
a canvas for brutal, petty men,
given licence by the system, by the silence.

Misinformation, a poison sluicing through the veins of the network.
They spoon-feed us venom, tell us who to hate,
who to tear apart, limb from limb,
a ritual sacrifice in their culture wars.
A manufactured rage, a roaring furnace,
reflected in our own bewildered, bloodshot eyes,
as we turn on each other, just as they planned,
precisely as they drew it up.

Prince Andrew, stripped of titles, a token gesture,
while the whole gilded cage, the royal family,
its foundations cracked with colonial blood,
reeks of old money, old power, a putrid lineage.
The flotilla, kidnapped. Livestreamed.
For all the world to see.
Another act of terror.
Another screen-played atrocity.

Celebrities preen, their silence a deafening roar,
a symphony of indifference, a grotesque, televised ballet,
while genocide churns, a meat grinder of souls,
humming in the background.
And they, the gilded, the untouchable,
have no compass, no pulse of conscience,
just empty gestures, a performative, sickening dance
for the cameras, for the likes.

Elon's fingers, twitching on his phone,
a puppet master's cruel game,
a race war sparked for the 'lols,'
a sick, twisted joke, a billionaire's whim,
a digital god playing with fire.
Igniting fires in the deepest, darkest corners of the human heart,
testing the very last gasp of decency,
of what it means, truly, to be human.

Ireland's flames, a baby's choked cry,
a migrant's hope, reduced to smoking charr,
another headline flashing, another forgotten tragedy
buried under the next scroll.
And the climate destruction, a slow, burning fever,
feeding the desert's thirst where Sudan bleeds,
pushing the desperate, the migrants, 
to flames and forgotten shores.

A funeral pyre for all that we've known.
This year, a litany of waking nightmares,
a guttural scream torn from our collective throat,
drowned in relentless, acid rains.
And this year's burden, a gaping, suppurating wound,
a beat of anguish, raw, exposed, bleeding,
the crushing, suffocating weight of all the world's wrongs,
a future, not merely lost, but violently ripped away,
humanity, scorned, dismembered, forgotten.

But we, we still remember. We still rage.
Our fury, a chisel against their gold-plated lies,
will splinter their silence. 
Will be a tremor in their rotten foundations.
We will not be silent. 
We are the guttural roar, rising, 
And we bring the acid rain.