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| Lucia O'Connor McCarthy |
She runs through the streets of our town with a demon in one hand and her heart in the other.
The demon demands a small tithe for possession of her intellect.
Her heart beats yet but does nothing to alleviate her fears.
We the townsfolk hide behind our lace curtained facades in a pretence of civilised tolerance, knowing in our hidden thoughts there germinates a seed of doubt, a grain of truth, but our own fears, when gathered together, will form a beachhead of ignorance to protect us against the inevitable destruction of our treasured innocence.
And from our eyes no scales shall fall.
The demon demands a small tithe for possession of her intellect.
Her heart beats yet but does nothing to alleviate her fears.
We the townsfolk hide behind our lace curtained facades in a pretence of civilised tolerance, knowing in our hidden thoughts there germinates a seed of doubt, a grain of truth, but our own fears, when gathered together, will form a beachhead of ignorance to protect us against the inevitable destruction of our treasured innocence.
And from our eyes no scales shall fall.
Tales for an attention deficit world
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