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I live in Atlantis,
sunk deep beneath the ocean waves:
hope is mere semantics,
for my people cannot be saved.

They speak of atonement
and whisper to almighty Zeus,
certain that death’s moment
is but a cleaver ruse.

The best surely believe,
and certainly they do;
the worst pick up where others grieve,
and certainly they do.

Long ago we searched for truth
and shined our light on what confused,
before the paid science journal,
before knowledge became profit,
before funding controlled the youth,
and the livings of those who’d dare to muse.

Long ago we made an honest living
and payed a hard days work
before the fuzzy math arrived
and set the family berserk.

Mom and dad both, two jobs
pursuing the Atlantean dream,
happy to work but failing
to make even simple ends meet.

Her last real vacation,
August 15th, 1972,
before the taking of nation
and the end of blue.

We used to go and play outside,
before the neon glow of phones
and the spider web’s rape
and capture of our hearts and jones.

Blinded by dopamine,
we missed the cracks above
and now Atlantis is doomed,
yet, there are bunkers–
just not for us.

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