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Ponderland

Ponderland.

The tire rolls down the smoking street,
shattered glass, bleeding feet
little girl only slightly wheezing
focuses on Daddy, he's no longer breathing -
the pool of oil still slightly ignited
like the news reporter's cigarette five minutes
before 'LiveTime'; another tragedy, another day.

The clock ticks, ticks, ticks, ticks in frustration.
The face of the small girl melts into wax,
the shattered glass become large raindrops sweeping me up into a tidal wave, a tsunami
attacking the smoking street.

Que the screaming, other people
only wax faces bobbing,
bobbing as I struggle to stay afloat.
My breathing is in my throat...

It's a psychotic's nightmare,
if the only positive,
it makes me appreciate what's real.
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
Published
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