Play Dead - Helms Alee

Have a taste

Don’t want

Don’t waste

Its flavor for all

Guts stuffed full of plastic morsels

Full

Looks right

Feels right

Tastes right

Worn well

Taxidermy by dystopian minds

It’s for show

And it glow

But all too strained

Scream strange

Make sense

Make it, sense

Derange

Trash turns death into art, immortal

Bionic bile

Force the light to bend and pretend it’s raining

Light on your descent into red

Faced, fading

Fist, the hand to lend

In defense, sky waving

Inch back from the mend with intent to die waiting

True friends don’t let friends play dead

True friends don’t let friends play dead

True friends don’t let friends play dead long