by Cadi Cliff

I dream in headlines
buried under my pillow
LED replay behind tired eyes

the stories we should be breaking

writing on every wall
street corner
graffiti-ground underpass
the space       between bus stops.
They’re the stories that get pushed

into corners

by titles that sell
those empty rallying cries
those slaps on the back
that bury the dirt into dirt.
Where is the line?
In which we cross

over, fund a world

we protest against
but somehow keep buying copies of.

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