Poetry

Propaganda

Red sweeps across the heavily veined

fingers clutching tightly

at the bulbous purple node;

a ruby mass fails to plug the seam

that widens with each breath.

The stain soaks deep

into the carpet fibers,

already building its resistance to being cleaned.

A perpetual reminder,

unless covered by a rug

so full of patterns that the looker

feels nauseated if their gaze lingers.

But, of course,

even so garish a distraction

is preferable to the plans

lurking beneath it.

So they say.

 

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