Perfectly round dreams Where all meaning is profound Are unknown to nature Not found outside concentric circles Trapped in stagnant ponds Products off denatured minds Abhorrent in their cleanliness.
Born to view the forest with dismay Recoiling from its varied sounds Preferring to march in order Than let the masses fall into disarray.
The wild things claim our spaces Calling out our souls Faces turned in primal screams Begging us to join their feral song Add our voices in the round.
Lacking beauty on the surface They delve deeper underground Excavating holes To later fill with bodies Ones that sat in honour at their feast.
The waves of light And distant crying Wash over, through and past Leaving us standing perfectly still No longer dreaming.
