Released from its pod

The womb of dreams

For dreamers

Shunted out into the world

Exposed for all to judge

Whether or not

It will suffice

Boy, girl, number.


These white balls are dreams,

Growing into fruition

On the tree of the free land

But the crows peck

And peck

From outside

And the button is pressed

By someone unknowing

Preserving themselves

From the poison that’s growing

And rotting away at the roots

That we are tending.


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