Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Boris Johnson Is Losing His Mind, and I Love It

Messy, maladjusted man,
clinging to his chaos,
confused at how his yes men could suddenly say “no”,
never knowing what the word meant,
lamenting on the lack of loyalty from the cyclone of snakes he surrounded himself with.

How could this be happening to him?
How could anybody do this to him?
He howled at a locked door,
laughing in the hidden face of fate, and the shadow it casts underneath the frame,
how it grows as the knocks notch up,
reminiscent of his bedpost.

He naps throughout the night on a bed of knives,
dreams full of dashed hopes and the danger of reality.
It is over,
but he bellows at time,
barking orders at the passing hours but never satisfied by their response.

It is over,
but he is still clinging to his chaos,
pleading with his power to stay,
with a soft kiss and a promise to change,
just like he gave to every one of his wives,
with a sweet smile and a mouth full of lies.

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