11

Unimaginable.
Toddler - unaccounted for,
they wilt in team-less bulk.

Soundlessly visible.
reviewing the view of ever-strangled red snapper,
grandly impossible but sleeping on a mattress-less bed of factuality.

Tell me, wise postman, why did you let it?

Hovering.
Between the bane of many fleshless lives,
like a sea-less weep (sandpaper-dry) and under tolerated from the iris of 11's weep.

Inevitable victim.
Unchallenged within the mindless, tedious port and relying on the hope of rekindled regalement beyond the painful gate, beyond the verminous trees.

'Work makes you free',
but the postman giggles and seldom works! Does he smell the jam and butter - the craftsmen and the butter churn?

11.
Walled-in. Cry-me-a-river Fuhrer and place me on your horse and carriage. I think I spotted a freedom tree, I think I spotted a possibility. I think I spotted life, but you tell me it was just the Baltic Sea.