It’s cold
In Alaska.
In the kingdoms above
Lay figments of imagination,
Vibrant strands of light loom over everyone.

I do not live in Alaska,
Though I’d argue Britain is colder.
Yet these lights are some kind of paranoia.
You can imagine the colour
And the awe –
Feeling like your staring God in the face.
But the realisation that this is imagination
Causes me to question
How close we are to feeling the words
That make up the definition
of pain.

The thought that one day the snow could be melted.
Polar bears freeze
As their fur charrs and smoulders
From the action
Crafting a nuclear reaction.
Finding a field of snow
Or in my case a field
And planting mushroom farms.
The sky is the limit with farming
Until the oxygen to harvest crops runs out.
Mushrooms can grow taller and taller.
Some will prosper
Some will suffer at the press of,

A button
A toadstool
A kingdom
Hiroshima.
Evolution evolves paranoia.