Boob Tube
Watching the day, the clouds control our doubts.
The walls sing the television of the future,
like paper, covering the faces of the children.
In the television, the future covers the winter outside
and controls the air from escaping.
We try to come a little closer.
We watch through the window, like hummingbirds.
We watch the faces in the television of the future,
starting to cover the lights of the future,
keeping our doubts.
The walls sing to the winter outside; to keep our doubts.
The walls dim black. Every day they seem to vanish.
The paper is on the window ... a thousand empty promises.
(Inspired by ushdfgakjasgh's a thousand untied ends.)