(Mall World, a poem)

Just down below the waking mind, a maze exists as old as time. 

A labyrinth that holds the lost and confused, trapped in illusion eternally amused. 

Lives not lived, and death unprepared. They cannot accept they have been ensnared. 

The sleeping souls wander about, in a mall these days with no way out. 

The rooms shift and change and move to and fro, they obey no laws that a mortal does know. 

The living can visit, but cannot stay, the risk that their soul be rearranged. 

Deep in the maze a great guard doth wander, ensuring the living are returned to sonder. 

The bathrooms are dirty and sealed tightly shut. No water flows, the pipes have been cut. 

The dead do not thirst in their artificial glee, the living have need and on thirst must flee. 

A counter is held near the court like a throne, a wonderful woman with a gaze like a crone. 

She watches the dead and keeps their eyes shut, they don't understand they are stuck in a rut. 

She greets the living and converses with glee, it's uncommon to meet any that bother to see. 

But she is not of the living, not a child of men, her temper is fierce and quick to ascend. 

Respect her and see you don't disturb her work, or she may blind your eyes with nary a smirk. 

The purgatory of mall world is an illusion like summer snow, the paint is peeling and the visitors know. 

Do not idly seek and do take heed, this place is only for those with a serious need.