I watched the ghost that pulls all things down in operation today As the sharp edges of the paper-crane Succumbed to the falling of its insides to the ground One with a red bucket with three drops of liquid something Watched as another loaded synthetic sacks on to the paper crane A toothbrush in hand and a mouth full of sins A sick cat, and a wobbly moving paper crane. A machete cuts through the throat of the paper crane, and the sacks cry, now suspended in air The toothbrush still violently attempts to clean all dreads As a robin singing a blue song flies past the red bucket I watch a loneliness rise as the oil from the hurt paper crane spills and forms oblique figures on the puddle of the three dots in the red bucket Green walks past the portraiture of anguish on the oil spill And sings along with the robin, a cyan tune The police in running steps on the oil and further he goes To meet the countenance of soreness through a giant plummet And sings a cacophony of pretense and