Coming Up Roses \ one for the dreamers

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.

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