too good at dreaming

the maggots are never

dirty

even though they

live in

filth

their whiteness

remains

immaculate somehow

They reach out and

emerge

wiggling from the

rotten flesh. Either

searching for

the meaning of

life

or offering an answer

to it

It was hard to decide

watching

them from above

but the younger the

eye, the blinder

to reality

“I like this one,” said

the little girl,

touching and caressing

the back of one

not much slimmer than

her finger. “I think I'll name

him Bread. I like

bread.”

“Me too,” said the boy. “And

I like... this

one.” He pointed at another

just as big. I'll name

her... Mother. Because

I miss her.”

“Oh, me too.”

“She told us that a day

will come

when we'll have to be

the ones

taking care of her.”

“Oh, but when will

that day come?”

“I don't know. Maybe when

she gets back

home.”

“It's been so long.”

“Yeah...”

“What do we do until then? The

white fairies have

taken over

all our food.”

“They're still our friends.

And guests.”

“I just wish

mother was here to see

them.”

“She'll be back.”

“What do we do until

then?”

The little boy had no

answer.

There was nothing else to

do but hold on

to the diseased hands

of time

and keep on dreaming

They were simply too

good at it

***

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