Our Fantasy's Castles Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It isn't a joke, the tearing apart of a
Womb—
The way the blind men commit suicide
Underneath the sunlight of
Their own home,
While the scientists try to prove
That there is life on other planets—
And the housewives try to breathe in
Their own living rooms—
By rifts we keep our hearts high up
In the locked dungeons of
Our fantasy's castles—
But it is all an obligation spied on
By eagles—
Like birthday presents gathered for
The vortexes—and it isn't enough
To make a living—
As the foxes make eyes with the doves
Who keep on promising them that
They will come down in time.