My nerves scream as I trudge
Through the drudgery
Of the scatter’d files of no-souls land.
Carnage at the counter
And a lousy numbness engulfs me
For I care not that his payments lie
Like confetti on some superfluous pile
Enshrouding some poor hapless pawn
At his sentry’s desk, too low, too cluttered
For use by normal human life:
Crouched and crumpled
Repentant at the blind kings’ plinth
Fro’ing and swaying in brainwashed rhythm
In perfect cycles of ‘p’ and ‘r’
Willing to help but unable to help
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.