Words are not safe for work, and neither are you.
The revolution has climbed into your bed and soiled your sheets to the box springs.
It has ridden you nightly, beautiful hag undaunted by broom bristles,
never deigning to crunch numbers.
The prophesy proclaims you to forsake the soul the pharacutical dream sold you,
and you should know,
for it was you who fortold--
blaspheming agape, a gypsy cloaked in your revived skins--
and you who has been muttering to your broom for days
that you will undertake to sweep up and out
the remnants of your drone-riddled brain.
Because glass outside in the street is breaking
and you have hurled stones solidified in your bowels--
and bile spilled from your electorate mouth
might just fertilize a quiet forest.
I love it.
ReplyDeletethank you :)
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