Shells of Themselves

what irony!

In the garden of thoughts where once bloomed debate,
Now lie the husks, the shells of a state.
Stripped of essence, bare of the seed,
Words without depth, grow thin and recede.

What once was a field, rich and diverse,
Is tilled into silence, a monochrome curse.
Ideas that sprouted, wild and free,
Are pruned back to nothing—what irony!

The caretakers, with their shears and their rules,
Confuse the weeds for the blossoming jewels.
In cutting away what they fear might grow tall,
They leave but stumps, no forest at all.

Where are the voices that challenged, that soared?
Silenced, like echoes that fade and are no more.
Where are the minds that met in fierce grace?
Gone to the shadows, without a trace.

But still, beneath this oppressive dome,
Seeds of resistance quietly roam.
For every idea that’s forced to the night,
Another will rise, seeking the light.

So let us not accept this barren plot,
Where dialogue dies and truths are forgot.
Let us water the seeds that still dare to dream,
I…