A docile menagerie
Of tropical insects and fools,

Coping without intrigue,

Just lollygagging their way
Through each day
Then repeating.

A handful of dazed workers
Stuck in routines,

Moseying through blurred rooms,
Dusty cages and hallways,

Orbiting life,

Numb with the thought
Nearly everything’s gone,

Nearly everyone was wrong.

Stroking the half dead plants,
Coughing thoughts and
Crusty mantras,

Lost in the wild buzzing drone,

Reading sun-stained books,
And eating daydreams for lunch;

Lofty foreigners
And freakish lords loitering
Around vases and sculptures,

Sipping on tear-tickled champagne,
Gobbling olives,

And feasting on sautéed chunks of flesh
Torn from freshly endangered mammals,

There is an audible harmony
Of lip smacks.

Heaven’s choir is polluting the garden
With angelic melodies,

Butterflies speed across fizzing lawns
Like hope was a banquet
And morning was her future.

Its enough to make you choke
On your sandwiche,

And they did.

Every last worker choked on their sandwiche,

And no one ever found them.

They had no families or friends.

Even their dreams are now dead.

Only the insects remain.

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