The floorboards moan in the breath of midnight silence. The memories desire to crawl to the surface. Who is laughing in the shelter of innocence? The clowns are breathing, sobbing as their makeup falls into a pool of colors. There are women there, young girls, too. Their bodies are burning with Satan’s flame, almost consuming their virginity. Who can find them in the dark, when the ghosts of everyone wounded on the battlefields of hatred are mocking their charm? The blurred realities are windows unopened. Beyond the serrated marble stone, against the cracks of poverty and trash, a cat meows at the window. A Cat eye can pierce the soul without spilling blood on the floor. The music wanders across the empty fields, guitars, fiddles, flutes, drums, and violins skip with Sr. Walter Scott. Mr. Lovecraft can unlock the door, but the welfare check has taken the key to some white building North-East. Someone’s at the door. It is an unbelievable scene with Mr. Hat and his lucky clovers. He’ll never share his privileged makeup. The clowns had taken the last of Mr. Hat’s golden coins. Science answers all the questions, right? Science punched religion in the chest and religion called to God. “Please, help me! He punched me in the chest. I can’t breathe.” Science chuckled, filled a few minds with ideas, and waited. Silence woke from her chamber, wordlessly climbed a hill and shook her head. “You see,” Science yelled. “Nothing.” Religion cried, tears filled the valleys below. Hatred found Religion sitting on the side of the road, dreaming about Gods and monsters. “Trouble with the clowns. Trouble with the makeup. Virginity has been taken. A Cat’s eye can see more than this.” Religion coughed. Hatred lynched a ****** from a tree because Old Man Religion said it was fine. No one believed him anyway. “What’s a ****** to me but a grain of sand in the wind?” Walking a black dog all day is enough to satisfy the ghosts. Man stops at a clock along the way to work, shakes his head, and wonders if what he is doing is wrong. “Not worth the money. Not worth the time. What am I doing here? I’d rather run away from this place, run through the woods and find a cabin to live in.” The clock continues to tick. The man presses on.
Change is twirling around ******’s finger. It’s been a longtime coming. That’s what the say these days. Passivity feeds the majority, or so ****** had told Jesus after a conflict in the Vatican. “Jews can be lynched, too.” One officer said. The stars are falling now. Water is flowing through the long, endless passages of time. Answers will be given, answers will be taken. Questions will be lost, questions will be found. Someone once asked Winston Churchill if he’d share is cigar and he said, “Why not.” Someone shouts, “Who cares.” Obama is following everyone to their homes. He’s a slippery little ******.