Spit-shined shoes and
manicured moustache
sell a sales associate,
but side effects may include suicidal ideation.
We chew our cud and wag our tails
along with the rest of the herd,
locked in position on the milking
merry-go- round.
We strain to hear our distant drummers.
The stench of gas fills us with fear and loathing.
We strike a match in a quest to find a way out.
We can’t find the words to tell the truth.
Our leaders smile and claim to love us
when we know it’s a damn lie!
Truth must be buried in a bubble under a pile of manure.
What kind of human being chews on the remnants of our souls,
and spits out what’s left of our eyeballs?
There’s no time to think, lost in a labyrinth of choices
while death comes seeping through walls.
We long for stillness.