The Flyaways -poem forThe Mag

Metal fingers outstretching

Over the pompous,

Inflated dome- head

Talons out, skull crunching

Machines to whirring work

Spilling yards of words,

And letters,

Scrambling, like scarab beetles

Out of the dark recesses

Of the ink dripping

Walls crying,

“Good luck in your new job”

Before rising into the dusty air

Fluttering out in the wind

On parched white papery wings!

poem by Zafaran for The Mag 154