I am not a silent poet

what do you hide
inside
your six closed sides
of personality-
where secrets of mortality
vacuum boom
from bleak bloom.
we are Their making,
already opened
and decaying
brown
from Their phallic totems
filtering down
into the den of stolen dreams
sinking in squalid screams.
they call us proles
and plebs,
scrounging dole
and sponging bread,
but look in their souls
and heads
we have fed-
it is They who are dead.

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