Colorful façades line the waterway,
jutting out from nowhere
like weeds wading in the marsh.
No one goes there anymore,
it’s too crowded,
or so they say.
Announcements blare
from the watchtower.
“There is no way to appease
those who criticize us
from afar.
Repeat after me,
they hate us for who we are.”
Something is amiss,
watching the patrols march
along the perimeter.
No one enters,
no one exits.
Well-oiled machine,
you are.
“Repeat after me,
we are lucky to live
in such abundance.
We have more
than enough.”
Tumbleweeds
dance in the town square.
Bus loads of enthused
locals arrive in the nick of time,
to greet guests.
Both visits scheduled well in-advance.
“Repeat after me,
you are free to leave,
if you can’t keep up.
Cross the river
if you prefer
to live in fear.”
This is all exactly
as it appears.
Nothing to see here.
The File Pile 