Aubrey A. Human Writer

Last night feels like today,

feels like tomorrow,

a repeating pattern,

looped into predictable cycles.

If A² + B² = C² , then

what road doesn’t lead to America, the

trending Rome, reborn, refiltered and redispensed for

upper-classmen pleasure?

Yes, women are still invisible,

staring through the glass top,

watching it on TV,

reading about it, talking about it, breaking it down

into s h a t t e r e d pieces

to rearrange into a stained glass, hiding everyone

from the prize of the few.

The few on top, drinking from golden grails,

overflowing the rim to stain a linen tablecloth,

washed by the basement people,

locked out of society.