little pockets of collective consciousness,
floating and flipping,
flip-floating,
fly-flying,
effortlessly. beautifully.
They know nothing of the murky, madness
down here.
They cluster together
with ease,
by necessity.
They are free from
the plague of adolescence
raging rampant
in and among our supposed
adult democracy.
Who are we anyway,
but a synchronized group
of kindred spirits
screaming our way through
the middle of it all?
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