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Guillotine
Shiny in the square
with the blue globe of Earth
in its unholy hole.
The Operator removes their hood
and I see—no, not me.
Not me. But it might as well be.
Let fall that blade,
Horrible Other:
so many errors—
the errors on errors
we call history—
must be corrected.
And what cannot be undone
must be obscured.
All poems are written and copyrighted by M. C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.