Quarantined

Forced to play musical chairs.Amputate our feet, line them up."What's yours is ours. Yours isours. Yours ours. You're ours."The border segregates memories.

Quarantined.

"Leave your faces at the door."Desire us in pieces, convenient pieces.Caress our artists. Snort awe dripping fromtheir works. Inject our pain into your veins.

Yours is ours. Discards for the discarded.Your past a chameleon, constantly chasedaway. We're the ones to feed it."What's done is done,"redoing the done.