The New Aristocracy of Ash

 The sky is the color of a bruised lung tonight
As sane Americans hold their breath until their ribs ache
We did not vote for a crown
Gold plated and tacky and heavy enough to crush a skull
We did not sign up for the divine right of the Loudmouth
Or the slow rhythmic march of the jackboot on the pavement
The ballot is a ghost haunting a graveyard of empty promises
I watched the rigging go down in the flickering light of a neon sign

While the owners sat in backrooms sipping top shelf scotch
Swapping our futures for a slight bump in the quarterly margins
Carlin told us from the grave they don't care about you
They want obedient workers not thinkers
And now they’ve traded the factory floor for a circus tent
They scream that white is the apex the top of the heap
A bleached bone in a desert of their own making

But white is just a lack of light 
I’m White I’m Olive I’m Brown
A bruised spectrum of humanity bleeding through the cracks
The bishes don't get it the rainbow rocks because it’s a spectrum of survival
While they try to paint the world in shades of ash and ego
I definitely didn’t vote for that clown
I didn't vote for the greasepaint or the oversized shoes
I didn't vote for the punchline that ends in a massacre

We’re sitting in the front row of a theater that’s already on fire
Watching a man who couldn't lead a dog to water
Attempt to play God with a Sharpie and a grudge
The wine is sour and the candles are guttering out
The great experiment looks like a cold slab in a morgue
We didn’t vote for tyranny
But here we are Staring at the throne they built out of our discarded dreams

© 2026 Mary Robbins

THE TEN THOUSAND YEAR TANTRUM

We’ve been here
ten thousand years,
dragging ourselves from the mud,
splitting the atom,
brushing the moon with our fingertips
and still we bicker
like toddlers in a sandbox
clawing at each other
for the same blue bucket.

We hold every color,
every tongue,
every strange and beautiful
way to pray or refuse to pray
a mosaic of blood and bone
that makes this spinning rock
the only warm thing
in a cold, indifferent universe.

And for what?
For the ego of a few
who mistake power for purpose?

For grudges so ancient
they rot in our hands,
dragged like cursed luggage
into a future
that never asked for them?

Grow up.
Be an adult in the dark.
See that the person beside you
is just as weary,
just as temporary,
just as breakable
as you are.

Our differences are the texture,
the flavor,
the strength of this place.

The only real magic we’ve ever made.
Stop the othering.
Stop the petty wars.
Stop pretending
we haven’t rehearsed this
for ten thousand years.

Grow up
before we burn
the whole house down
and call the ashes
inevitable.

©2026 Mary Robbins