Poem: Mad Song

In the kitchen in repose
Tuna tap at their cans with power
Wheat rustles in golden rows
Inside the bag of flour

All the mirrors and windows
Are crumbling back to sand
The wooden floors moan and bruise
Everywhere I stand

Late at night cockroaches sing
Lined up in an all-star choir
Voices so low I can't hear a thing
But they seem to be getting higher.
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