Sitting in sadness. On the edge of polluted waters of the dirtied soul. The banks of your own personal River Styx. Decay in the air. Sludge stagnates the pristine. Dust where there used to be air. Tears without reason ooze like pus. Things are dead here. Unburied corpses thought forgotten invade with pungent rot.
All this. Just on the other side of the sunflower laden hill. Mere steps from the tire swing on the sweet tree of life.
There is time to play and time for damage control. Toxic waste waits for the gravedigger’s return. Grab your pail and shovel, child. Your back yard needs tending.
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