We’re one of those giant chocolate  

bunnies that show up come Easter. 

There’s a spider in our hollow,  

spinning webs deep into the sugar,  

enough to make even the finest candy spit-worthy. 

We come apart in prying fingers. 

We come apart sailing the sun.  

On a crusade to broadcast sweet nothings, 

living an interlude of bubblegum hair and witch pop, 

eminence and palm trees and new ground. 

The stories of far dystopias  

taught us to live dogmatically. 

But the rules we follow take us for romantics,  

take us as residents of cotton-candy reality, 

coating in the gloss of an empty plane. 

Call us the Great Vacationers  

while we bask in the old aesthetics. 

We cry for confectionary explosions as we 

consign ourselves to the battle. 

Doesn't apocalypse feel gratifying?