I am drowning though I can swim
I am falling though I can fly
I am lost in this mass of faces
Staring at me with dead blind eyes
Though I'm running I walk backwards
Held by the bloodless fingers grabbing for my ankles,
Pulling me down and smashing my face into the dirt.
And when time has washed me free after decades of ferocity
My bog body will lay bare showing my glued gills, cliped wings.
Enthroned over the bone idle mass of us living dead
Rich man is sitting with his feathered crown
Swinging glue and clippers as his sceptre.
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