The Year of Opossum



The coma year is up and the experiment ended.
While without voice or choice, it died inside, and
No one could bring it back to life—busy, too,
Playing dead themselves, pretending their
Graves were flower beds and lounging chairs.

The innocent cling back as it swings lower;
The indifference encountered is expected.
Our eyes still beam, our hearts still beat, but
Everyone was blinded by the headlight glare
Onto a future smash up—us curled up together.


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