Amoeba
To lacquer tomorrow
with the gang’s reckless charge,
they scatter the crumpled myth of Poseidon.
The sticky weave of power and flattery,
eddying as it turns,
is reduced in a pot overheated
by driving rhythms—
sweetened with whispers
like a nightingale’s song.
The more it simmers,
the fiercer the season convulses.
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