The postpartum of a last caste.

The hanging gardens of empire
Commute self-flagellation:

The low brought high,
Audible cheers,
Resolution.

And the self-absolution
Of sadists, rekindles
The unconscious thought
That we are pure
Despite gratuity
in our peasant life.

Why do we accept the dead?
Why do we accept ‘tragedy’ in waiting?

And in the early morning hours
As the cloud consumed a town,
Foot over head, hand over hip…
Screaming for life atop the din
of our self-absolution,
8,000 people were gassed to their death,
By the greed of a few.

It’s not like this is anything new.

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