Hyane

What Revolutions May Come

The sinner, so hopelessly lost.

The beaches of Normandy, so eerily vacant.

 

A fog is rolling in.

The red sun flickers blue.

 

Into their ears, She is always whispering.

Dictators. Martyrs. Butchers. Naysayers.

 

They are all pawns of a much larger game.

Her vile, rotten game.

 

No stone left unturned.

Not a single worm in the soil.

 

The men. The women. The children.

The dog. The cat. The goldfish.

The crib. The dinner-table. The television.

 

Your lives are forfeit in Her eyes.

 

The sinner, so hopelessly damned.

There is but one road ahead.

 

Let him out.

 

Do you forgive me?

 

Yes.

 

Cheeky bitcH—

 

If there is an eighth, there will surely be a ninininninininininININI89898989898989899999999999999999999999999999999999999

 

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CADAVERS JUBILANT VOICE IT SOARS

IT BOUNCES OFF OF THE WAVES

IT ZOOMS THROUGH THE POLLUTED AIR

IT ATTRACTS THE VULTURES AND MAGGOTS

it compares it contrasts the voices will surely last

the townsfolk witnessed a ghastly sight

a wicked woman roaming in the woods

eyes of venomous purple and black

RABBIT GIRL IN THE CASINO HAS GONE MAD

CONSTANT INTRUSION OF THE EAR CANAL

THE IMPUDENT MEN SPEW IGNORANT LIES

HOLDING RETAIL WORKERS HOSTAGE

the disgusting routine has been interrupted

the writhing girl diagnosed with alexithymia

nonchalantly saying the worst things out loud

how do people even show their faces online

THAT DESPERATE EFFORT TO BE DIFFERENT

TO THINK DIFFERENTLY

TO BE UNIQUE

TO BE UNLIKE THE REST

is for naught.

 

Yet, my fingers still ache.