A fine sweep to rid the floor:
Sparkling clean, a fine sweep indeed!
The eye adjusted on the door,
Dusted anew the seats of tweed,
The curtain with the perfect folds
Letting in beams on crystals more!
Reflections on the ceiling high,
Reflections of the illusions!
Utopia that the weaklings try,
Living forever in delusions,
Fitting everything into moulds,
Turning deaf to the screeching sigh!
The sigh that’s muffled and smothered,
And with a shining mask covered;
Dystopia that the weaklings hide,
Dying forever, a homicide!
Though it could have set all things right,
Ending the plight without delight.