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He looks the same as everyone else, an amalgamation with the crowd,

A reminder of worry, a dark and nagging shroud, 

He blends into the concrete, into the ghosts and the papers,

Into the shadows and the pavements, the many faces of dictators,

Flocks of noise constructing teams with intention of destruction 

The sooty smile of deception inspiring considerations of corruption,

Blurring the brimming of bruising blurting from the blasphemous blackened beaks

They suffocate and swallow, breaking and choking; he can’t speak.

Firing paintballs of grey, spiting, chewing, taunting, pecking

Until he has been drenched in greyscale their ways, their world set in.




By Molly Sellers