Marketing Plan

There is no space to move. There is no choice
To be made, barricaded in the billboard
Clusters that cloister the singular voice
As it combats a hungry, zombified hoard.
They'll deafen you with their chorusing moans
As they bind your body to brand-name chains.
Then they'll cleave your muscles off of your bone
And scrape the dried flakes of blood from your veins.
The ravenous urge that drives them is a
Thirst for never-ceasing satiation,
An unquenchable to need to feed on prey
That long for freedom and deviation.
They'll devour each other too 'fore they dine—
Feast on their own int'rests to feast on mine.

poem by Tim Stensloff
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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