Children

naive

I am twisted geography
Find me
An oven of authenticity
I bake the smile within a crowd
Blessing the floor with my grin
Pacing halls and running pills
Up and down a ladder
Forever juvenile, killing slow
The snore that woke the dead
We sing with the zombies
That fall apart on the floor
Find me again
As the tears fill my beaker
I’m finding me more
Becoming odium, futile
Little candy hearts that taste of chalk
Wreaking like the bowels of hell
Furniture paces, swinging in the wind
A chime in day
Finding me still
Was this ever really what we wanted?
Or did our demons rub into the floor?