Population Explosion

Alive in the valley of death,
There is a preoccupation
With reverence for God.

The notion of a crumpled Post-It note;
Signed and dated.


Here in the blast of the bomb,
We’ve no more time to muse;
Just to dare ourselves
To fight against his tongue.

Or be willing receptacles
Of his soul;

To clean the floors and sinks
Toilet bowls; and the odd corners
Of our destructive selves.

By influence, we speak dissonance.

And yet we claim the throne
Not by our own,
But as God saves,
We have been graced.

Only if we give little revolt
Bend the will below
And let reunion reign.


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