Inside our colored brisk world,
a bone inside a leg
lies the world of the negative.
Conviction of inherent good
has dribbled out of our childhood world,
like the stuffing from a toy.
Hypnotic clocks and unfinished
goblin gestures paint a surreal
landscape, fixed in hysteria.
We have lost touch with
the ordinariness of things;
a hushed network of nightmares.
Malevolence is routine now,
places our world in continued shadows.
No more happy-ever-after, just a rheumatoid hic-jacet.
We expect the appalling and disastrous
as normal; in this world the blood screams
whispers to the flesh, and we… accept.
Here the alien wanders endless benighted
streets, where innocent households laugh
They still believe in an old tomorrow
where milk bottles were left at the polished
door and shining coins were counted and collected.