Voices From the Green

Surreal voices, distorted and
obstructed by the barricade
filter through from without to
where I lie myopically scratching,
opining to myself on paeans
and chaos and the
enigmatic intricacies thereof.
--
Maybe I should coerce
my brittle fixation and
bait myself to go out,
out, outside the structure, to
writhe in the doleful
daintiness of the futile.
--
Maybe that's the point?
Futility, decay; these cannot
be heard in surreal childrens' voices.