Molten Poetry

Let it burn.

What will you do tomorrow?

It’s going to be hot as hell
between the walls of towers
that lift the rich over the swell.

Asphalt, black from dried blood,
hot from the angry sun, burns
your tender feet as you try to run.

There’s no reprieve in the city,
where humans grow like cancer:
a metastasized answer to a question
that never needed answering.

Don’t linger, because that starts the
burning, and the skyward audience
will withhold the applause you
certainly are not earning.

What will you do tomorrow?

You’ll keep running, into the arena,
where a nice man, in a fancy hat,
will show you the sword’s flesh-piercing
is really quite pleasing.

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