Golden Jet, Vanishing People

 Golden Jet, Vanishing People

for the ones still watching

The jet is gold,
polished like denial,
cutting clouds as children sleep in cages
just beyond the headlines.

The streets hum strange—
a silence not of peace,
but of people missing from their lives.
Lights stay on in windows
where no one comes home.

History doesn’t knock anymore—
it livestreams.
Disguised in flags and filters,
it dances on platforms
built to distract,
not to remember.

A man in a suit
says the past is fake,
while the future bleeds
into the gutters of forgotten towns.

We scroll.
We scream.
We soothe ourselves
with memes and meds.

But in this blur,
some of us still see:
the mothers searching,
the poets warning,
the earth cracking open
to whisper:

you are not imagining this.
you are feeling the weight of truth.

And maybe—
just maybe—
that’s the beginning of something real.