Poetry

Shadows lurk behind every corridor,
This is the rain,
Shadows hide away in their hideaway,
And the jackrabbit has a crack habit,
How he scampers with might to cause such a fright,
What he sees in the shadows makes him scream,
He screams like a Siren in the gorgons' eyes,
So stoned that jackrabbit, he hacks the ancient mountain,
He uses a jackhammer to construct the great halls of yesterday,
The great halls of yesterday become the bread that the future eats,
Though we hunger today, if we survive the dusk and meet the dawn we'll be fatter than the cow, we'll have milk for the children,
But they'll just drink our blood, the scamps,
And the jackrabbit sees all this, and he works all the harder
He pushes that jackhammer up the mountain like a boulder,
And as it cuts his shoulder, he'll cry out into the night like a grim,
And he'll be happy in his sadness, so happy because he's so sad,
So he struggles because that's life, and he should die to deny himself that,
And he should die too if he won't look to what lurks beneath the furnace, in those shadows,
Because that's the rain, too, and it washes everything away until nothing but nothing remains in the echo of a new day:
The jackrabbit lurks behind the shadows.