Above my head
The sky is grey.
Before me,
On the offing,
A band of golden light,
With a few rays of sunshine,
Peeking through.
Behind me, a rainbow
Stretches out
In all of its translucent
Magnificence,
And to my left,
Loom the monsters.
Four silhouettes,
Beastly chimneys,
Pointing their *******
Up at the sky,
As if to say,
"We own you."
Smoke rises from them,
Like from the barrel of a gun
Dark against the golden light.
"Who have you shot lately,
Chimneys?"
Me.
They shot me.
And at that moment,
I hate them,
These ghastly cement creatures,
That steal my air.
I hate them,
For ruining the beauty of the day.
I hate them,
For talking away the pleasure
Of the smell of petrichor.
If Freud were to read this poem,
He'd smile at me and say,
Dear, this is what I call
Projective identification,
Before proceeding to touch my breast.
But he's right,
Of course he's right,
He's always right,
Because I, too,
Like the beasts,
Have a *******.