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.

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