the day people

[Sepia]

They sing, those who toil the earth above, they sing songs of harvest, they sing songs of the weather and their gods and trolls, their aberrations their beliefs their dreams their hopes their fears all around the earth we have heard their song- slaves sing songs of freedom and hope, words disguised in chains, housewives singing of freedom but knowing hope to be a lost cause, thinking that none give her flowers

The songs are everywhere, among all men and all women, their shadows sing the songs of lost children, demented grannies and sick old people out in the streets, crying for something different, hoping for god or somesuch to come down from above and lift us anew into the realm of our own realities, comfortable underneath the skin, feeling the skin hunger vanish, seething dreams filled with poisonous pillows and covers drenched in sweat from every night, every waking nightmare, consuming

Did someone talk to you? Was that the regression from light, was that the abandonment of the day people, were they buried there or was it something else we dragged away into the night? Burdened were our shoulders but the weight of what world was upon it? We heard the whispers ourselves sometimes when we visited you in that basement but perhaps we were too weak

Perhaps our wills bent in other directions, perhaps god himself observed us perhaps this is a petri dish, dreams coated in agar and viewed through a microscope through time and we are just this new race of pets this overlord race wants to breed and

The sickness is in us, the destruction is final, it is fatal, it is a dream kept within a song, the song that was sung to begin the world and there will come a song that will end it if there are any left to sing it but the virus is spreading and mutating and its manifestations can not be seen as connected now but the army of the twelve monkeys did its

[Q. G. Pennyworth]

I like this, but it confuses me.