Flags


The fear of the subconscious
Grows in the minds of the trees
They hang, grabbing onto the chains
freedom, could be found above
the
ground
I notice
Drop, grimace
Hopeful for
the sound
Of the grey-crowned cranes
holding sharp martinis
Floating like the burrows
in the Listerine cirrus
The dragonflies scream in jealousy
Verbatim to the toads
The smile lines fold over
and over and over and over.
He’s aged well.
Shooting down the birds
to feed his family
Is that justification?
Is that unalterable function?
Fervently pulling out the glories
Yellow and shining
Feathers exploding into a million
flags for each ethnicity
Heavier than a pound of metal.

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