Where's Alice

Injustice, fed by piecemeal for the
followers, desperate and hungry.
What have we become?
A collection of hypnoid mortals
 beyond reproach?
Ejected from our pattern,  thrown
 into preformed geometric shapes?

 Laying ourselves down on sheets
 of mica, our books no longer used,  stacked high as a nightstand beside
 our multidimensional mattress.

We sink into our psilocybin dreams,  
the sleeper, who cheapens reality
by ripping dull  pages,  from glossy magazines, model lives leave no
excuse,  to pay attention.

Deceived and dazzled, we  build
 furrows with broken collarbone's,
a garden for mother earth.
Rabbits and hares run screaming,
for Alice to rescue those who have
 fallen deep,  into the rabbit hole.

Generations, their nescient behavior
ingrained,  has  produced scum
covered fish eyes, that cast
a downward glance at poverty

While Farceur,  incessantly pens
 for the elite,  scheduling rehearsals
for the next disaster,  drawing out the next pawn,  in their game of life