It floats down like feathers.

There was a murder at my childhood

playground today.

Don’t worry.

Just a small one.

Fitting on the tops

of the swing set bars,

feathers shedding

on me forgetting

to remember

the simplicity

of having no perspective

in a world of countless lenses.

It seems fitting,

that I’m peering through my glasses

as they crow: Death to the masses

On the pastel purple trusses

of a world I have to leave.