The cloudless sky scarred with contrails
Like cicatrices on a slaves
Backside from numerous lashings.
Back and forth, this way and that way
Flying bombs travel overhead
Leaving in their wake, pollutants
In the form of anomalies:
Man-made, miasmal cirrus clouds.
Experts maintain they are harmless
Like our frosty breaths in winter.
Believe that, and I have a bridge
I want to sell you in Brooklyn.
Down...
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