Emergency room doors are burst from flood of victims
so weak in knees that they are forced to crawl atop
one another. Those at bottom of pyramid are crushed,
heavy, backs, and chest cavities cracking and puffs
of dust erupting up geyser-like in intensity, but unsustainable
as they snowfall down atop piles of bodies. Outside
press snaps pictures, relentless, heartless, a mammoth wave
of paparazzi who do their endless pillage of decency
also clamor until they and victims are indistinguishable
from one another. Once upon a time ambulance chasers
were free to be independent of hordes that were held
at gunpoint in low-wage work, working basically
for basic functions of others, but now all are stuck,
strapped in for this ride but no emergency lights
sing-scream out from onboard those motor vehicles,
cutbacks culled any sort of progress, and in truth
a horse-drawn carriage would be too expensive
for shallow worth placed on human lives. Still,
emergency room is plagued with bodies of pandemic
naysayers, storming hospitals for their basic human
rights to breathe air, while others who heeded
instruction are left out behind presidents, media,
and hordes, hold up without provisions to salve
wounds that are spreading fungal all over their psyche.
Emergency room doors don't exist, emergency rooms
are illusion, United States of panic attack is slogan,
log line reads mentally unstable populace willfully
sacrificed to wolves in suit and tie because skin color
differed, pocket books were too thin, excuses by men
controlling monopoly board.
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