Toxic Soup for the Mutant Soul

GPS says you will arrive at your destination
through a glass, darkly.
Featured images bounce off retired retinas
begging for tags.
Catagorically, the excerpt from my status update
will change when my free will
withers and I’ll share my location
with editor, only.
Classic.
Publish that.
You know the path,
preview the draft,
see all the strangers
spring up to stand in your way.
Even the in-fighting among my own ancestral desires
to take flight
flare up
and it takes every ounce of onomatopoeia
to stay on the road.

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