Dark sky bleeds onto the horizon,
dripping from bruises of clouds.
Black curtains dance and flicker on a window
the world burns and blisters at a touch.
Half-finished masterpieces rot in imperfection,
ridiculed by their own destined masters.
Cheshire cats yowl from shadow-swollen corners,
smiling sweetly with their yellowed fangs.
Every faceless stranger takes two steps forward
while the clock's hands curve backwards three.
A grave for hearts broken and alive:
this place in which we live is not our own.
