Behind all hearts lives the anti-thought.

A dismantling softer than silk.

A broken path that leads to the mother of rotten milk.

This maniacal insect lurking does not sleep.

He is more terribly empty than the soul is deep.

Deep in it’s design a carefully tailored spell.

Deconstruction constructing the most flawless hell.

Casts away love with the breath from it’s wings.

The father of the lost the loss of all fathers.

Children at play make monuments of all plastic things,

They the gods of old made monsters of puppies;

In puddles called forth clashing waves.

Crashing ships into porcelain rocks.

Where soap bubbles held universes of light.

In tall grass plastic soldiers war waged.

Heroes are born there.

Where the law of good reigned.

The god children dare.

Yet, the wise man falls into his death

with all the plastic artifacts.

With the insect he sacrificed his mind, the spirits husband.

Illusions dance for his delight as lies tower over the dead.

Bedeviler, blasphemer of self

it’s just a puddle.

Make waves.

Be a hero again.