in the mist of decay, the midst
of a dream we wake into: futile sleep
walk towards a glitter precipice. we learn?
aside from the "how i get by" canned speech
and explanations of hollow fortitude...
we do believe in smart devices, our
vices to portray silent voices,
and loudly. apoplectic carnival
realism. we are righteously so.
except when we're on the wrong side of history.
the talk the talk. is only. we are
being murdered, slowly, one
by one, we succumb to civilization. politely
we acquiesce the hangman's advance;
after all, who wants to offend
the hideous beauty of silent ignorance?
there it is inside of us,
the insidious blueprint for suicide.
death is no longer beautifully honorable.
it's a matter of statistics.
will the last person left please take note of this?
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