Poetry

He got you, but he won’t get me

By: Sophia Kelly

I’d apologize in advance,
but Game of Thrones is
not my religion.
Sundays have always been
a little rough for me ever since
my parents picked that day (and only that day)
to argue about something I forgot
but it doesn’t really matter.
Life is full of disappointments,
but your pastor has already
filled your brain with that.
Or is he your god?
Your sermons are medieval
A Thousand Ways to Die
with an unhealthy dosage of
rape, racism, sexism,
and incest. Lots of the latter,
and the former, actually.
What are your catechisms?
Valar Morghulis and “Winter is Coming.”
What pieces of positivity to help you start
your Monday mourning.
Have you heard the news?
The Mad Queen blew up the Sept,
A beautiful tragedy engulfed in green,
but that happened two seasons ago.
Behold, I bear you good news
of tidings of discomfort and dread.
The Promised Prince
by the name of Aegon has come.
Blessed be the White Wolf
who nails his aunt at the end of season seven,
but he knows nothing.
Revelations ended with No One killing
the Night King, so why did you all stick around?
Now that it’s done, you can leave the OASIS
of television and watch the garden grow, one
that does not sing of ice or fire.

Categories: Poetry

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