The fences of downtown Tacoma strive to prohibit the malintentioned miscreants who meander the streets from entering the areas of the sketchy, scary, scarred skeletons sitting silently in abodes built of brick and birch. The words of warning by the fences fencing and the mailboxes mailing seem to contradict themselves with hypocritical surroundings which counter their own very essence. Though when viewed from afar a fence seems to contain, zoom out, observe walls of large buildings. The lines in the wood are the lines of skyscrapers, stretching to grate on the clouds. While the atmosphere’s loud, the streets remain silent, and seem to speak to themselves. Their whimsical whispers make merry of misanthropes who seek to disrupt and rebel.
Though the people may seek to uprise,
the city sees through their quaint lies.
They look for change in a haze,
but will learn to obey
as the town fences them in with its sky.
The boxes on buildings marked mail and post pretend to portray quite a service. They would seem to deliver the presents and products of caring companions and cold, careful companies, when in truth all they do is annoy. On the surface they’re kind, but I’m sure that you’ll find that like poison they quickly will spread. People say they’re convenient, but really don’t mean it, it’s a method for transporting ads. Anachronous thought is easily fixed when fire is bought and the glycerin mixed. –by Keegan