They went, like that which is not
in what is the way to go.
They took blue dolor in a bauble.
They burned it down.
They found yellow steam
in an alembic & smashed it
up with a pyrrhic victory. In this vat they put
the pleasures you knew
when you were young, held above
steady flame, collects on a black
globe & shatters into a green
effluvia; they made it so.
They took from you
your lunch money, knocked the scholar's
cap from your head, burned off
your baby fat & handed you a candle
made from its tallow. They
made honey from your mud: their
floor is a checkerboard & your
scooped-clean skull the
crucible for so much sticking.
Their giant brown bellows strapped
to your back, you stumble after
their caravan from one
generation to the next.
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