The headlines exploded
the paper, no longer black and white
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.