it's a massacre
of souls,
of eyes,
of minds.

it floats
in space,
upon airwaves,
draped on atmosphere,
somewhere between orange and blue.

the rise and inevitable fall
units pushed,
adverts sold
in between bouts of public disbelief.

i do not struggle,
rather i crown
sloped perspective
as king.

left with romantic lament
of black and white dreams,
where headstones forgive
and return
warm embrace.

NB @ 10:24 AM

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