The Village

Secrets hide between the beams of
the houses and the trunks of the trees.
A village is a stagnant pool that leads
to decisions ungainly to a clean little world.

Society is a village; we swim in hushes.
Eyes darting to corners, and rolling around
like a stallion crazed from the storming skies.
Intentional whispers sliding through the cracks.

Ears are plastered to little holes where sound emits.
Mouths moving in time round the clockwork seasons.
We all sleep on a bed of lies, and only our dreams
can reflect the spilling over of our subconscious.

Young girl has secrets, but she buries them in her covers.
Her dolls turn away and her clock speeds up.

Peace and love jumble together in a mass of
ideals that spin reams of music from their bowels.

Daddy won’t unlock the cabinet because
there’s a shiny gun inside; who’s it for?

The reality hides beneath the waves of Windex
that marinate on every chrome surface in the village.

The village is so clean; the village is so pure.
We have flowers; ignore the broken teeth.

I can hear the wind whistling in the treetops.
She comes to blow seeds into the village.
She will react with surprise when her form fills
all of the crevices in our shadowy houses.