Emptiness, dark room, twelve o'clock, somewhere in space.
Shallow thoughts of trivial travesties
pace through tired tracks, never ceasing;
swollen feet aching for relief;
they run wild
until their toes bleed through their white linen socks
and their faces yield blurred spectacles of anguish.
Hairline fracture of the skull,
oozing dark wishes and sick devotions,
so afraid
that anyone and anything might remind you
of your little demon children
starving at the supper table,
calling for mama as they
sluggishly move their frail little bodies
in wretched formations.
The salt of their tears is
your seed to silently sow;
all you need to know.
To live and forget who you are all at once;
it's nice to sometimes escape fast,
we hardly have a say in these things, you know.