How absurd it is that we take ourselves so seriously sometimes,

But that’s what keeps us on our toes,

That’s what keeps the monsters from creeping through the sheets

And holds the bats at bay

And smothers the biting thoughts

That try to eat us whole

And pull us under

Beneath the soil

And spread roots

Like weeds

Stripping the earth of fruitful space

Leaving a trail of heads

Faster than anything living,

Hard to keep up if

you let the ugly heads tear through marked territory,

Without kicking a shovel in the ground

And ripping apart

The beady eyes

And stripping the foundations

From the ground,

Sometimes that shovel

Is the dagger of passion,

That separates I from them,

With a spearhead

Too sharp for combat,

This shovel is made

For leaving a trail of flowers and gold