White words fade quickly on a white screen
In a ever-shrinking white world where
Incestuous ink will soon be unseen.
Hell must be such a pale place,
Void of real life and real wonderful death
That moves to the visual rhythm of time.
No wonder the suburbs are such an empty place.
Creativity was killed and left to bleed out while
The murderers fled and encircled themselves.
The only sound you hear is blind children
Screaming for their never-ending meals of
Hard-headed beasts and sauteed veal.
And when I have no choice but to pass through the fire,
Holding my breath to avoid deadly fumes, I think
Of the real color of a real open wound.
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