Fred Aiken Writing

with everything sanitized,

all the pieces put back in their respective places,

a harmony playing in the background,

knowing the order of it all will not last,

not in this place,

not at this time,

but a dimension exists where it’s always clean,

not a single worry about microorganisms invading

and microbial battles occurring all around

because it’s all been swept away,

harvested by the guys in the hazmat suit,

strolling by as they drag each corpse

to their respective place