a secret.

they pull the curtains
and slip into bed,
their sheets more comforting than the other,
that thin tissue insulating
a man, a woman,
from cold stars
and a moon that renders
even the streetlights
as useless as the rest of us.

curbs shield their conscience
from the underworld beneath,

the jail grates
leading to the slime and grime

of what the after, the waste, the act

left behind.

but the depraved live above,

not below,

a common misconception it is.

too often prescribed,

popped in the mouth and swallowed

while only the savants,

with their limited skills and no place in your streets,

slip it under tongue

and stomach truth

instead of the cure-all lie

fed to the others.

the invisible wasteland

behind glittering panes

that deceive our eyes

as we refuse to see:

its a fact, common truth,

a rumor, maybe?

the world is hell

for you and me.