When I look at the middle of my maraca, My imagination legitimizes this:
A middle-aged moniker Of someone stuffy - like an Eloise Or a Herald - Running across a field And frantically felling All of the feelings They had been keeping in cages For the entirety of their dusty existence.
Their ribs get ripped out of their racist rhomboids Their bones become fashioned Into classy clavichords. In the future. Sometime, undisclosed. New age aliens will discover them - After the humans have long been gone - And in the steamy sludge of the Apocalyptic stench They will play The hottest Jazz You ever fucking heard.