The elevated grass sweeps against my knees as I wonder throughout the
flourishing channels of foxholes to find seclusion. I cup my hands around the
dominating sun until the shafts of light circle my body. I hoist my head into the
haze, which consistently nourishes the sour alterations of social equality. I
observe the fixed, luminous seeds of the night sky as the streams of this planet
outline their constellations. The bark of social order submerges my remains into a
society that was born underneath a woman's gown.
Dewdrops, with listening ears, sculpt around the positions of the lying masses.
Civil servants continuing to route us into pledging our selves into combat.
Insisting for us to exchange our bones for artillery and rousing our tongues to
compose parades against one another. Pronouncing that the charcoal tones of
their skin are as appalling as the scorched earth that accompanies the discarded,
resting bodies.
I want to see Big Brother facing the ones with soiled, sandstone cheeks whom
engaged their minds into a raging bullet.
Understand that they all have developed into another national product with rotted
thighs and eyes, not a liberated bird knitting the leading light of this country's
emblem.