Fifteen thousand;
All of them, collated around.
It must be the end of the world,
I think
with venom.
He does not stir.
The news was brought by maid
hand embellished
and a curtsy to match.
He affords a gesture;
away. What now?
I for one was alone on my orbit,
neither prepared not accepting
nor concerned or dejecting.
My family will murmer
over tea (from the bags;
we have always been far to lazy for that sifting lark)
and probably biscuits too,
if there's any going from Ms. Smith next door.
We will be all greatfully informed
not to worry. Seeds can be planted fast
I learn, in the fertile mind
of a child. My mother's shakes
will be disguised once more
behind drapes of every floral pattern
so nobody suspects a thing. That was
father's idea too;
I do not see how hiding the truth
will ever help anyone.
Still, I was not afraid,
but now, the conflicting opinion of Father Fritzel
throws me to the lions.
If a mess can be made,
it can be cleared; at least,
that is what I have been to taught to
believe. But now, watching
tears fall in the abundance
of only the purest or blackest thing,
I feel as if the world is on a slant. We
will never get out; go on,
