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Red, white and blue will come for you

The swarming crowd
teeming larger than life,
descends into your molecular life
with singular strife, a bugle and a fife.

Now, in the jungle of your bungle,
you bang your drum slowly with
all that is holy and still you can't
get that secular design out of your
prehistoric mind. You learn to walk
on your own two misanthropic feet,
though your knuckles bleed and you never
run out of things to say, this way and
that, at a drop of a hat in a magician's empty act.

You're a concubine of the state and this is your
fate. Angry Birds caged in your fists and you feed them
your next best line, articular at last.
You give to them
another list of things undone under the moon but
hidden from the sun and you write another poem,
back home from the race, all alone,
an Anonymous Mask settling down on
your original face.

No one listens anyway; all of it will be taken
away in the paranoia of a dream, everything will
have seemed to be real.

It's not for you. Never was.

Editing stage: 


An angry but well constructed poem. Not up to your usual high standard but its good to see you back on neopoet.


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