Incubator

by The Juicer

It is sunny in the brethren city.
From their understated holes of luxury,
They grapple out in numbers out of count
On careening threads, through the coiling streets.

Fast as lightning; the speed of light,
Flickering on all screens, windows undrawn.
Refresh, Refresh – see what’s out,
Bobbing heads swimming, in seas of reality.

I shrugged, I moaned; She polished her feathers,
We are still learning to talk and jive.
My head is cold, my hands are tied,
We posited too long, in this haunt.

The herd is calling, the trees are falling –
The city will be gone – we must not to tarry!

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