Two Sisters

Alice and Godzilla birthed twins,
then the lizard swallowed, taking
Alice and everything she ever was;
for females always DO become Daddy's girls.

Chips off the old block of brimstone, they grew
up crooked sturdy, bodies that beguiled, voices
like harpies, keeping well quiet until the tender
trap was sprung, bread and butter forever stolen
from those whose brains were where they shouldn't be.

Yellow brick roads set aflame, the Scarecrow
wore asbestos, the Tin Man searched for his
stolen heart; the lion too cowed to say anything.

If ever Dorothy stepped over the rainbow, she would
have found just ashes and rain, the sisters having long
ago ravaged the City and stolen the ending's gold.

From nowhere came insanity's embodiment, minds
filled with poisons they turned on each other, houses
shuddering in their wake, splintering from mindless rage;
the survivors stumbled out, and tried to explain

One came from the West, the other the East.



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