contemporary grief

tears fall from
eyes moving
in the network
a strategy controlled by robots

impure breaths in city crevices
supply the circuitry
of devices
eager to automate life

scrapbooks are torn apart
cover to cover
pages hit the glass
nothing reaches the street
this is the hour of profit
when fortunes are collected
by souls fighting the
voice of freedom

pollution
is the hardest disturbance
it wanders
like birds thinking too much
carried by inverted winds
reducing life to
expectations

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