In a moment the death of truth

The headlines exploded

the paper, no longer black and white

red

oozing the last vestigaes of what once was inside.

Tell me more

As if the act of connection

The act of hearing

Would drain the pus from around our ears

And in freeing us

Show us that there was more.

There is no more, that what lies.

Each moment is spinning out of control.

Each spin, magnifying the lost control.

We are the children

Who hearing the sound

Run from the thunder. Run

To the shelter

Of the basement room

That is dark, quiet and secure.

Nothing there can penetrate.

Nothing there can be heard.

The lies are no more,

Lies never heard and never uttered

And in never uttered, the are but tendrils of imagination

Lost in the treetops with the spiders and the birds.

The newspaper expires.