bathed in spicy-cinnamon springs,
flying on cotton-candyfloss wings,

kissing darkest-chocolate lips lush,
all else we gleefully airbrush,

yet we feel not a thing,


dare i say it,

and still,
are we not beings,
of flesh and of bone,

or have we mechanised this too,
merchandising, through and true,

cold, deadened,
numbed & dumbed,

akin to a lump of jagged stone.