Yearning Dread

A small amount of yearning dread

It changes and shifts and moves alongside the burgandy

borders of the Victorian stanza. The frame is the small

room – the chairs and tables are wire frames. Wires and

wires covered and twisting and turning into sharp thorns

that protrude at awkward places. The models sitting down

with the thorns piercing the plastic flesh. And the walls are

covered with dreams of where next.

 

It’s a yearning dread, breaking out of the mold

Afraid that nothing is as it seems behind the walls

of plastic that envelop the soul. How we interact

with poison and pain but cannot feel the whole thing.

 

It is a yearning for something new, and the dread of which will come.