McCannot (prodigalsun) wrote,

the final days of the pomegranate sun.

august is windless, a kiln,
& you find yourself suddenly
a spider
under a mason jar
& you are a calm collision
& you are a nervous wreck
& you expect the worst
& wait pompously
for the best.
when it comes,
you will not be surprised.
you will not be prepared.
you will already be hungry.
your final rations
will slip into the lowest bowel
of the hourglass.
the bombshelter will shrug
& become an unceremonious tomb
& your wallet
will vomit
a green foam
of meaningless paper.
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