Our Maker's
lath and plaster
a ribcage and skin
barely conceal
the stubborn organ
that feigns
the most precious emotion
that we
as a failed experiment
were given.
This commercialized day
to signify its gains
is, for many, a spectator sport
indecipherable to those
who loathe
the smell of their own skin
but we've forgotten
to care for one another
and so we deserve it.
It's wasted surveillance
on palliative care.
You can eat thrice daily
and still starve to death.
Don't find yourself
counting on rain
that ain't coming.
Honey, you're golden
but we can't speak
in code
for much longer.
No comments:
Post a Comment