All these characters breed inside my head,
Some of them alive, some of them dead,
They thrive; they crumble, like pieces of bread,
They resurrect, they dance, like Ginger, like Fred.

Waiting for their time, they occupy themselves patiently,
Men do the dishes, women read newspapers diligently,
They can escape, but instead choose to wait purposefully,
If one vanishes, it subsequently returns apologetically.

They live in trailers, lofts, apartments and the suburb,
They work, clean, and respect the “do not disturb”,
They’re an amalgam of pure fiction and dumb reality,
They fully master their lives yet believe in fatality.

I am their god, and I am their pilot,
Letting the plane run on autopilot,
While the cockpit is being hijacked,
And their fragile lives being hacked.

Like some disaster movie, not all passengers survive,
The pregnant woman suddenly gets contractions,
And the control tower is happy to watch us “live”,
“Die you bastards! Or repent on your evil actions.”

You are just fictional characters in my mind,
I will do what I please, if you don’t mind,
I will pick one from the front, one from behind,
I will kill that nice man, even though he’s blind.

No emergency landing for you folks,
Fight back with your spoons and forks,
Enough of your begging, your petty talks,
I will throw you out; you’ll fly with the hawks.

Then again, I will spare you for some other time,
Just to punish you for some meaningless crime,
Don’t give me that talk about being in your prime,
Damn! I am just keeping your death for a better rhyme.