One needn’t consult a calendar to know what day it is. The sky has turned a deep crimson, your heart beats a polyrhythmic cantata of fear that scores the hollow thud of foot on pavement. You find yourself, through no will of your own, bound towards your designated polling station. The beast of compromise, asphalt arms outstretched, beckons, dares, you to make a choice. Pen on paper bleeds democracy while you check and double check to ensure your will has been cast properly. You stumble outside into an unusually hot autumn day. It has been said, but what will be done? One vote. Your are significant only in your insignificance and your secret shame is the desperate hope your chosen mayor, councillor, and school trustee will win by one vote. YOUR VOTE. One can but dream, so pour yourself a scotch, and lay back in the psychic recliner of a job well done. Tomorrow there will be a new mayor, and you can return to the sweet bosom of ignorance and apathy for another four years. Of the prospective mayors, what will the city look like?
I read a tumblr ‘bout an antique land
Which read: two vast and empty newspaper racks
Stand on the corner. Near them, on the street,
Half sunk, a crumpled A1 lies, whose frown,
And hammer font, and subhead of cold command,
Tell that its writers well those passions wrote
Which yet survive, stamped on these recyclable things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the racks these words appear:
"My name is print media, king of media:
Look on my words, ye Mighty, and adjust your opinions accordingly!” Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of those empty racks, empty and old
The lone and level streets stretch far away.
This has been: “Ozymandias” as interpreted ‘bout print media or something