drift into Elysian Fields
of numb delight,
blocking all poison tipped
spears, deftly tip-toeing
through fields of
antipersonnel mines
aimed directly at his gut,
wearing wonderfully efficient
earplugs that screen out
the cries of the wounded
until they resemble only
a distant chorus of sighing,
bearable lamentation.
He will live in bouquets
of vinyl flowers and wax fruit,
happily embracing his narcotized
mannequin and congratulating himself
on bringing the dead tree
Hallmark card
to life so easily.
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