Once, they used to associate
the color of terror
With a shade darker than midnight,
Folded deep between the blacks,
They say darkness is never frank.

The ghouls hang after dinner,
After the 7 pm soap opera,
The ones that fear the smell of light,
Scandalized by afternoons,
Only protected by a bribed moon.

I fear there's been a mutation,
A transformance of some sort,
Holding the clear sky a witness
To misfortunes marring the bright of day,
The watching sun didn't scare them away.

So as we're scattered,
Playing along,
As specs in a dynamic universe,
Stirred by life's invisible hands,
Believing in our clockwork plans,
The oil falls and the painting is saturated,
Disrupted, disfigured, ravaged,
Beyond the setting of all the bad bad tales,
Trouble trickles wherever it falls into place,
Never caring to merge into the painting with grace.