We are the walking dead, we are artless
children playing in the graveyard
who have bandages
that cover up bright eyes.
The world is innocuous, methinks
and we shall die a happy death, not having
known of those serpentine chains coiling to bodies.
(I am one of them, yes, I am.)
To live doesn’t mean you are alive, we’re bloody aware.
If those patches still get stuck (refuse to detach them!)
to our visions, our fallacies intact,
then what? Perhaps you could —
daunt us, taunt us.
You could collect fallen feathers,
and rejoice deeply.
You could tighten the chains, put us in shame.
But one day, maybe,
when you are jaded, stop playing the jester —
you could, but saunter beside us,
and we’ll look, together,
not at visions but at realities.