My arms move freely yet still are bound
swaying; legs dancing duct tape tied ’round
ankles and feet, getting chaffed with the heat
of the fiction of the friction
…or is it the the friction of the fiction?
Are they coming for me
to stand against or stand
I can never tell, because of faces
at least two on each head in this land
Blending in yet standing out
The ring sparkles when the sun hits the snout.
….and I smell shit.