under all the beds
in every closet ajar
these things are very real
the thoughts suppressed
the last cold breath
the moment before death
the void between all things
all the green paper life rafts in the world
won't stop the blood from seeping into so many lungs
and one day
long after recess laughter
and birthday morning smiles
these things will dance under the harvest moon
they are drowning the children in the rivers of Madison Avenue
and shaping them to soldiers of the dull
shooting innocents point blank in the face
with pop-up ads
The fry cook king
laughing at the bloated corpses
holding up his monuments
a shadow will break through the clouds
and consume the flickering candles
waiting to go out
in the metaphorical cave