Asylum 3

The nights that they laid out,
had fear of missing out.
Had parchment bags filled with plans.

Medieval monks making up for lost months,
sat down on rooftops.

They’ve died only once.
In the new and improved world,
people die so many times
one loses counts.
When you cannot keep up with your own demise,
how should or can you  keep up with other’s.

“Medieval monks are sold in antique shops!”
A woman told them that.
With high heels that can pierce through,
and shiny lips that can swear.
Instead of sky full stars, a dress full of glitter.

She came on the rooftop to fly.
The monks didn’t reply.
They sat silent.
Where once was a mountain.

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