The centipede moves with his head tilted down.
His feet are a hundred men, their expressions unknown to a child.
Though they walk together, they are always alone.
Their bubbles of solitude continuously blown.
The watchers are humans.
As humans, it’s their duty,
to throw food and disgust at the animals marching.
They wear stars on their skin, for they are Godless forgotten beings in their day of doom.
Their feet move as one, towards one exit,
the centipede marches.