Blackmarks in the Doorshapes

We reside, like doormice,
In a silent era
With just a mime to denote dropping bombs
Like beautiful missiles,
With Roman smiles
Bloody hands scrubbed to death with peroxide
We reside like mutemen in a golden age
Tripping over our own meek voices
Until the silence begins to creep, and grow
Seeds in to roots, in to trees, we sew
Seeds of passionate, vermillion hatred
Futile with rage, wild,
Untasted
Spitting out everything we know,
Cooking it up
Splashing it down,
Whisking it 'round
Until the dark comes creeping about
Catburglers and perverts alike
In to bed at night, slither and slide
Filling up that stale, bored mind with thoughts of
My pedestrian life...
I push it down
And I push it down
And I push it down
Until the pain subsides and tthe guilt is drowned