A necklace of skulls, aligned by _forces feudal_
in camouflage, leading the ride to hell— 
We ride as one, with masks on mouths. We learn

 

to heal as one 
is a brand. Insincere: like this road like a knife. 

​

Imagine our feet walking slowly on the edge
of the steel, and we feel the cityʼs texture borne

​

into the urge to work after sleeping less
than five hours. This is the real from their news. 
The metro has become the _ventriloquist’s evil clown_

 

laughing to these 
skulls—us prisoners of war, us prisoners of work. 

​

And from this death march of a brave new world—
Here comes the assassin blindfolded. Oh, 

​

if only we could be direct: _like Dylan, like Blake_
and we, in ten thousand steps recorded by
our apps, will try to grasp this rebuilding—

​

This Transition—
As straight as italics. All out after being locked, 

​

what does it mean to ride now with _Beep Cards_?
This blue plastic of a prepaid used in bus fares? 

​

If the line makes us suffer? Taking place past
the overpass, almost a hundred sweating behind
the masks, the blurred face shields unwashed, 

​

are late for work—
Deduction then in pay. Iʼm one of them. A poet

​

waiting. Like Dylan, like Blake—voices of apocalypse. 
The buses come: forward the new kind of missiles.