Pulp
paper pulp in a paper cup
red thread inside a loom
staring at a magic eye poster
discerning our doom
on a wheel with no fulcrum
we spin but don't touch
we only stay in this dance marathon
to collect our free lunch
movie theater popcorn
will always be stale
I'd rather live with the stray kernels
out beyond the pale
paper pulp in a paper cup
red thread inside a loom
the room that's most crowded
is the emptiest room
paper pulp in a paper cup
red thread inside a loom
every pac-man has a soul mate
who also loves to consume
but every pac-baby is just another mouth to feed
and each tree that grows up from a tiny seed
only winds up turning into pulp
pulp that only begets pulp
and pulp imbued with pulse is still just pulp
paper pulp in a paper cup
red thread inside a loom
weaving garments that aren't warm enough
to revive what we inhume