In the kitchen of mystery the weeds creep,
tripping wrapping twisting pulling
to trap and fall
the victims of secrecy.
tangling themselves further
in a mess of weeds they cannot see.
I stand over all,
laughing at lost wanderers,
caught in my weave.
I am amused.
Thank you... twas fun!
I'm making my own country, and calling it Nothing. "We're our own country, and Nothing will save us now!"