r  e  d  u  x  . . .

we always left the trash, methodically sorted, outside, though having failed we still tried, defibrillating, this corpse, these huddled cells, shocked until dead, then shocked some more, reviving it all instead, living, existing, with mortal trepidation, unknowing dread, trodding down alleyways endlessly tread, staring behind while goose-stepping ahead, severing a reinforced thread, weighed down by lead, marching ever on, spilling crimson red, across canvas, symphony, words to be read, this moment, now, presently, living to regret, squandered moments, tears shed, over contrived verses scribbled instead, as we thank Capital for our daily bread, writing fatally flawed scribbled verses, most definitely best left, quietly unread … … …