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While Babies Cry

We celebrate
Nonsensical poets
Toasting their vacant genius.
Our crystal pings
Splash sloppy drops of liquid grapes
Onto embalmed Mignon
While abandoned red potatoes
Crave the bloated bellies
Of dying children
In faraway lands.

Cold, hard, cash
Stuffs the cheeks and eyelids
Of plastic women,
Their wrinkled silicone spheres
Hanging like croquet balls in overstretched socks.
Dead animals drape their necks and domes.
With gristly golfer’s tans in a Clive Christian mist,
Vixens and villains wear fool’s gold
While babies die in silence,
Too weak to cry out.

Felicia Stone

Here, I share, with stark honesty, my life.

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The following comments are for "Fool's Gold"
by FeliciaStone

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