Above us are those twinkling ever-lasting directors,
to come forth another vaporous tale from on high,
darkening long-before night we become exhausted,
baby needs beddy time earlier each consecutive day.
These are the odd shapes of dire complacence,
hearing meaningless thanks from strangers,
actually daring to fabricate such vain gratitude,
pretending all the while that it’s not about you.
Check your mail again and once again to be sure,
always waiting to cast you’re impressed and cheered,
at least for them watchful teeming outsiders,
jotting your simple exclamation housing a weak smile.
Paint the colors of rage and pain in hot pink instead,
holding their fuzzy bear across the center pillow,
right between your richly contrived friends and enemies,
crying tears of sadness and joy from inspired cynics.
Gentle singing of lively birds in swaying trees,
paper rustles beneath for launching ships later,
nearby atop fountain ponds with geese and swans,
kid’s parents imagine themselves as real captains.
Wake up completely soaked under a blabbermouth,
no music since that would begin to sink us even further,
whether it’s embedded inside a finale or the overture,
and from here afterward, folks, it continues down south.
Sharwrong's Song 