sounds uttered, cluttered the air, yet
shaped like words, flew like birds

exploded

from a bush where no leaves yet
attached, grey and dark, no green buds

no signs of life

they were clear echoes on repeat, like old
old ice cubes trays full sitting in the freezer,

"Next!, you are after the stale cadaver?",

the speaker kept checking for a pulse
of popularity, itchy palms on vibrate,

your okay, for me it is too late.