Like the flowers who grew out of your stolen matter, I'm just a friendly reminder of the past, one who remembers you and laughs at memories we'll never share again until we mingle 'neath the dirt.
Ashes rise from fires they light as the world finds itself in its midnight hours; dusty flowers, those blackened clothes, brush the air like gentle coughs of pleasant speech.
50 Shades Of Red
Rice. One bowl in the morning, another in the afternoon.
The assembly line screeches as arthritic gears clash beneath my hands.
I stitch together floral dresses for faceless American cows.
A bayonet gives me a reassuring poke in the back to remind me that I need to work faster to beat the capitalist pigs at their own game.
I don't need breaks; rest is for the weak.
Workers of the world,
God bless Karl Marx.