A journey to the Upper World

He scurries along dark pavements,

Scraps of leftovers beckoning

Friendly colours of brown and black

Amidst roads of grey and 

Smells of delicious meat in the broiler

He sneaks a peak out of darkness

Bright tungsten glares from heaven

While a steady whirl 

A constant distraction

One. One. One.

Zero.

He climbs a steady climb up folds of heavy fabric

And musty smells of bleach and dog furs

Brown amidst maroon and yellowy white

While the television blared in a faraway place

Danger contained within metal and plastic

Then he paused.

There, in a tiny pink box:

The It.

Nestled within luscious layers of hay and straw

Toys within reach

Clean water to one side

And a little bell, hanging from the little ceiling of pink and nil

And a little wheel,

all cute and yellow

paradise in the universe

The It slept peacefully in a corner, breathing little, quick breaths

An imaginary squeal waking its little limbs

In an air struggle

An imaginary predator
and an imaginary freedom

He turned, and scurried back into the Under
free

Under the Silvery Moon

Under the silvery moon,
Stars we cannot see
Shining a peaceful melody
Over the purple skies
Of tungsten and green

Padded cushions
Hiding twos and fives
If dreams cannot be seen,
If life cannot be lived
I can't be me

I can't be me

I can't be me