We treaded amongst broken dandelion patches,
digging ditches for the dead. Just kids
in the afterglow of the aftermath of the afternoon
delights. We readily ate up the bodies
and drank on their red wine as it
spilled from their veins, filling those ditches.
A vision of utopia, where the deceased stand
hand in hand with the living. A place where the
meaning of supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
is still known, not lost in the annals of modern
language and idioms.

Yesterday, a newsflash: A man fell from
a window from the tenth floor of an
apartment and survived with minor bruises
and a cut to the lip. He put it down to wishful
thinking. They now treat him as a God because
he didn’t claim it a miracle. The magic of irony
still hasn’t been completely lost. What a
shame it is that we have drifted, is it not?

A photograph is all I have, sepia like my
memories. Red hair now no more than
a lighter shade of grey. I now live in
luxuries made of wax, melting slowly
with time into nothing more than shapeless
masses of useless objects. I loved this
place once before, but not now,
not when I’m on my own to bask
in this glorious place.