What happens now...?.

.A.

Again. Again.

The lips are scarred and soft.

The face might not be my own.

"Keep on runing, keep on running,

there's no place like home."

Repeating between the dead streets.

Again. Again.

The eyelashes beat against the fingers.

They don't know.

They...

* * *

.B.

Express in my mind is gathering more speed.

Braziers spread heat and collapse.

Funnels whistle, steam wind up the northern gale.

Cabins are filled with drunk clowns.

Facial paint on the walls.

Words written down with passionate hate.

"Do we ever have the pleasant smile

from a child of horror and lies?."

The dots have fled.

Running freely on fields with deers.

Hiding inside their furcoats and secret light.

Playing hangman games between their horns.

The dots have fled from the pain and suits.

"Do we ever have the wretched hand

playing with dolls and hide-n-seek?."