How exogenous our laments unto powers assailing us, at this dawn of a sonorous prison – clammy walled with wails and hymns.
Loud music raging through windows and slamming doors praying that man never exits his dreams, towards a hell of his making and other paralyzed fountains.
Grave men are giving orders to ludicrous totems, hunger monuments decorated like graves of soldiers who died loveless; children colliding in alleyways of shanty sections of broken neighborhoods, their every strut is for keeps because it could be their last.
Mountains of food parcels are rotting in the waning heat of summer, tented among hobos with rowdy eyes bloated by addiction and maddening cravings; mothers to some, whipped and foaming in their mourning wail for bread and stale milk.
Venerated stalwarts dress in flags and momentary costumes of war, exalting anthems and seemingly braving the storm of a pandemic chipping our sanity from our dead hopes.
What excised promises, botched plans aimed at our failing graces holding our face to a mirror that is melting down corporate sewers?
Who is bracing for the brutal force of time’s fist on our rabid chests infected with prayer and news?
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