There is no cure. We no longer
desire to be cured.
We rather infect as many as we can, so we are all alike:
crushed plastic doll heads
in blood-splattered, contaminated rain
bending like trumpets someone sat on.
We rather infect as many as we can, so we are all alike:
crushed plastic doll heads
in blood-splattered, contaminated rain
bending like trumpets someone sat on.
Soon nobody will have their own
instruments.
within the poem, "This Rotten Trumpet is Our Leader" by me and Martin Willitts Jr, newly appearing within The Rising Phoenix Reviewpartake of more HERE - https://therisingphoenixreview.com/2020/07/10/this-rotten-trumpet-is-our-leader-by-juliet-cook-martin-willitts-jr/
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