fever dream

spent brass melting on a hot floor, pooling,
releasing twinkling music, the bang, the thud of fists,
the deathly screech of men minding their own,
the shots ripping through flesh to protect simple packages and
bombs dropping from on high, exploding
gallons of brown and black paint on beautiful cities, gallons of
red and blue and sickly gangrenous yellow,
all over the world, all over the world,
craters becoming as common as ponds,
bombshells repurposed for scrap-rigged staircases and still,
the gentle music of melted brass runs through the air
while old men dance their languid, sweeping dance,
hand in hand with eachother
going gently into a dark night and
urging us to follow their every step,
their every step.

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