In the throb of atmosphere a rumbling has begun in the home, the sanctuary of family and air for exhaling away an aching world, it's pressing in too tightly now without kindness or acquittal. Echoing behind our anxious eyes, a wobble of fear; over the sky, over the fierce hue of time, no break, no dawn. A vicious flailing- kindness, hope joy, laughter, sold for days, minutes, seconds more; bartered for an nth of miserable anger. Humankind anon will scrape its lust with the common shroud of coldness- the children and their laughter, their dance and their patter, the moon and stars and intercourse, all a whisper, one god-awful unspoken bereavement. No more sunrises or sunsets seen through fist-split eyes. No more joy and laughter. Here every lawn is trimmed, groomed like a preacher’s beard. Trees replaced by tool sheds, garden plots shrunken, dead. Shiny green pools, television screens as life-sized as bloodshed. Everything is lighting our path away from home,...
(The Weaver's Song)