The prompt is to write a poem rooted in 'weird wisdom'.
I put my keys on the table . . .
They cannot breathe.
They do not sleep.
But they talk.
They do not eat.
They do not drink.
But they speak to me.
There is reality
And there is life
In inanimate objects;
And they can move
Without being physically active,
And they can act with malice
Without having a brain.
Inanimate objects may be politicians.
(c)2ndwitch
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