Penguins.

Penguins.

The staples attach each paper;
click click, click click --
The metal folding flawlessly -
mesmerised by this magic trick.

The fictitious novel finally completed,
this text another dorsal piece upon
that shelf where our characters lay.
The bland outcome shining bright - a swan

is never envisioned of oneself,
as the imperfect body reminds you
to change - like penguins we march,
wandering endlessly; a flu.

The fruitless marching continues;
left right, left right --
as we're obsessed by the revolting
truth: our inability of flight.

Blacks and whites engulf our vision,
impurities drown our souls,
the contagious virus spreads on and
on, as we seep into dark holes.