The quill rewrites …
You keep your head down and follow the footsteps.
Those feet imprinting themselves in mud, all of your vision.
As you walk slowly in line. Head down.
The world blurs itself in peripheral vision.
As do the guns and uniforms.
And the words and the stories.
Spoken in hushed voices.
Keeping you in line.
As you slowly walk.
But some day,
Some day you’re going to want to look up.
Some day you’re going to want to get shot.
Some day, you’ll be bits of brain and blood in mud.
You’ll be the easel.
The brush plucked from your skin.
Dipped back in your lifeless body.
Making paintings in someone else’s peripheral vision.
You weren’t meant for lines.
Lines weren’t meant for you.
And there you’ll be lying.
Dead, perhaps. Lifeless, never.
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