A Touch of Treachery
This place is perfect, or so they say,
The stream trickles slowly, sustaining the flower beds, and the blossoming trees.
Trees the birds roost in and sing their warbling song,
As the sun flows down lighting this sickeningly serene place.
They call it perfect, I call it stagnation.
A place so over-orderly that nothing ever changes,
A cycle of rebirth that goes on day after day.
Perhaps a touch of treachery will make things go my way.
But, I must induce this chaos cautiously,
It would not do to be caught ripping up the flower beds, or cutting down the trees.
So something simply subtle must bring this place to it’s knees.
A single drop of poison swallowed up in the mouth of the river,
Would cycle through this
This place is perfect, or so they say,
The stream trickles slowly, sustaining the flower beds, and the blossoming trees.
Trees the birds roost in and sing their warbling song,
As the sun flows down lighting this sickeningly serene place.
They call it perfect, I call it stagnation.
A place so over-orderly that nothing ever changes,
A cycle of rebirth that goes on day after day.
Perhaps a touch of treachery will make things go my way.
But, I must induce this chaos cautiously,
It would not do to be caught ripping up the flower beds, or cutting down the trees.
So something simply subtle must bring this place to it’s knees.
A single drop of poison swallowed up in the mouth of the river,
Would cycle through this