The boiled soup
Decays—since when have we behaved?
This sinkhole hits home—
hear me out loud:
“There is no taste to freedom,
like CO2, we burn up atmospheres
because, yo, we hold all the time in the world
in our minds—three extra planets too.”
There is no taste to freedom.
The roiling coup relays: a pinch of salt to quay
the wound without Band-Aids. Beer me, baby and
let’s fold peace cranes in the corner.
Take the next grey bus to tide-pool aqua beaches.
“Drink of me, Bitches the sin you tasted.
Eat my body, too.”
Let’s fold peace cranes in the corner
and sip tea we didn’t brew.
There is no taste to freedom, while the
boiling soup decays. Let’s drink
and deftly seek delay
the revolution of a token day.