Mass Market

Completely open to entropy’s
Flat joys which seem so surreal;
A marketplace for grass and weeds,
But the fruit trees torn

Down the mountainside is wailing,
And there is gnashing of teeth;
In the corner a carbohydrate fire
Burning up the calories of the dead,

And while my own munitions
Are spent upon plagiarisms,
I weep with angels
For the circumference of the sky.

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