She nails herself to a ladder
because she can't find a cross.
Bystanders fold their hands,
then they unfold their hearts.
Poetry thinks Narrative is simplistic,
they whisper, and Nonsense doesn't
exist. We admire lifeless things.
Elsewhere, the Collective sells tickets.
Everything is nonsense, it insists,
but the signs say you have to buy
a membership card to get inside.
3 hours ago