There was a murder at my childhood
playground today.

Don’t worry.
Just a small one.

Fitting on the tops
of the swing set bars,

feathers shedding
on me forgetting
to remember

the simplicity

of having no perspective
in a world of countless lenses.

It seems fitting,
that I’m peering through my glasses
as they crow: Death to the masses

On the pastel purple trusses
of a world I have to leave.