The Elms
By: Kevin Meeks
Blazing, neutral, razor-sharp
cupcakes line the aisles.
The turnip-lined boxes
are playing classic Jazz.
The air is permeated with
a cacophony of rhythmic beats.
Not a single note is distinguishable
out of the desert complex.
Wingless halos come out of hiding
beneath the Jell-O pillow.
The plants in the waiting room
hunger for human brains.
They are trapped within
the iron-shackles of their stands.
Trying to gain self-consciousness,
but failing in the attempt.
While the denizens listen
to the nasal voice of reason.
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