IN THE LAND OF THE UNCANNY

At the close of the day, when the moon steals our pretence,

We must pledge our allegiance to our captors.

Or we would sleep on blooming spike.

Oh, the immortal tempest. Why do you feed me sickly broilers?

Now, in hazy cursed vision I see a carnival of delightful wanderers.

On thorns, they walked,

bleeding words said and unsaid.

For many as there was were handcrafted to bemoan their festus-like bravery.

Yet, the outskirts of this fallen parliament of wanderers chant cruelty.

Even those who were once prisoners in this gloomy carnival now threw pins and breathed fire.

Amidst the red waters and sickly snares,

Their midnight footprint will someday be stolen by sunburn!

And on that day, the silent clouds, the chatting woes and the tempest will be gone.

We who walked in thunderous storms,

Shall we not forget to claim our thorns?

For only then will we let our children live in our voices and not our path!

And in the land of the uncanny,

We dare to bequeath to you, our bodies as a pleasant trail.