What does it take
To go from blurry lines
to stygian blind
- a pinch of color
Of the wrong kind
A squeeze,
a hint
of looming chill
an undulating road
deceptively downhill
we move around
with masks on
facades of civility
quickly shorn
quick to crack
like crème brulee
to reveal the horrors
we keep at bay
the slope is slippery
the soul is mud
for cunning craftsmen
to mould with blood
to tattoo with needles
with poisonous tips
our dark fates
in hellish scripts
history has shown
many times over
tis true it’s true
and so what must
we do
fight today
the minor tweaks
the casual stripping
the harmless leaks
to snip and nip
this thing in the bud
this evil out there
but also in our own blood
