The Boiled Soup

decays; since when have we behaved?

This sink hole hits home. Hear me out loud:

“There is no taste to freedom,

like CO2, we burn up atmospheres

because, yo, we hold all the time in the world

in our minds; three extra home planets too.”

There is no taste to freedom.

The roiling coup relays: a pinch of salt to quay

the wound without Bandaids. Beer me, baby and

let’s fold peace cranes in the corner.

Take the next grey bus to tide-pool aqua beaches.

“Bitches, drink of me the sin you tasted,

eat my body too.”

Let’s fold peace cranes in the corner

and sip tea we didn’t brew.

There is no taste to freedom, while the

boiling soup decays. Let’s drink and deftly seek delay

the revolution of a token day.