Here be frayed edges,
grey spaces, hollowed, innocuous potholes where politics and pragmatism are filtrates lost in the quagmire.
Here be only bleached bones,
fairytales whispered to frightened children,
prickling goose flesh on blameless skin,
before the burn of sleep claims their innocence.
No hope behind the darkened mask
and pitted failure of darkness,
here we concede, we lie for punishment,
Admonishment for unspoken desires
burning between the cleft of thighs
stamped burned red with higher conscious.
Here be hunger,
slow whimpering yearn for something deeper,
a thrust of want which remains incognito,
screech of the fox in the hours before dawn.
There is nothing here,
but harsh reality,
life where wasted
when our eyes were shut.
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