"Think of England"

I had a nightmare that there was a forest

with no shade, just all built of light —

holy as it was, blinking didn’t help

so everyone would cry, every night.

There was a disease that made people take back

every kiss that they’d given to you;

the worst part was that, during it all,

you could feel them coming out again.

You lost a tooth for every white-lie told –

but you’d lose two if your words made someone cry.

Nobody grew laugh-lines anymore, unused 

tongues sunburned fast in open sky;

and the water hurt your lips – so you’d gulp it fast,

blink back tears, and try to think of England.

Everyone’s hands were so cold, so you warmed them 

on the fireflies that’d just burst into flame..

Duty flaked off like dry old dead skin

because everything just led to something worse –

the better choices felt like inaction and the 

safely-fruitless bounty of sullen silence.

–So you ended up a prosthetic of yourself,

trying to calmly emulate self-mastery;

blindly wide-eyed, nerves scraped raw, 

praying to keep the well-lit predators at bay.