dusty terrace
You ever notice
how the sky looks back at you?
Not like a canvas —
but like an eyeball
wrapped in cloud cover
and government silence.
They say:
“There’s nothing out there.”
But tell me why the moon echoes
like an empty steel drum
when struck by human curiosity?
Why do the tides tremble
as if something enormous
is breathing
under the ocean’s blanket?
They tell us to look up —
but the real secrets
crawl beneath the waves.
Creatures older than history,
smarter than our satellites,
waiting
for us to drown in our own denial.
And Antarctica —
yeah, that frozen, no-fly,
off-limits Wonderland —
what’s really under all that ice?
Cities?
Portals?
A whole other chapter
of the human story
ripped from the textbook
because truth is bad for business?
They hide answers
behind classified ink
and redacted “trust us” smiles.
But sometimes
the truth hums like static —
just loud enough
for the curious to hear.
Call me crazy,
call me paranoid,
call me a tinfoil-hat poet
if you want —
but maybe
the lies are louder
than the lunatics.
Maybe the conspiracy
isn’t that we believe in something wild…
Maybe the conspiracy
is that they convinced everyone else
not to.
quiet kestrel