recapitulations

I never had a reason to doubt, you see.

John died.

Jack did too,

and Jane, and Spot, and the lovely family of four 

fenced in by dirty (you didn't see that coming, did you?)

stained

grimy 

white fences,

the kind that makes you think of

creme, or blanc,

but really, it's just

whitewashed wood in the midst of pretension.

I dug up no lies, no actors in masquerade,

but the book ended

all too abruptly, like

!

Like some crude, hand drawn warning sign

ignored by the traffic,

laughed at by the road kill,

and its only purpose,

to forewarn the bloody mess.

And I found no irrational thoughts

underneath it all,

but I stopped thinking, you know.

I hoped you'd be able to tell,

when you died too.