Ken-stuck-y (stream of consciousness writing 20)

The queen of hearts is outstretched
On the grass just beneath
Your first floor bedroom window.
She is half asleep
But wholly on her way
To whatever there is after this.
And in the midnight,
Changing blue
Of your television set-
It's soft halo floating over you
Like a spirit you want
To believe in or quite possibly
Believe in you.
It's a small world herein,
Continually being dissolved,
By the soft, acidic blanket
Of smog settling over
The local wastelands
Of barren pastures
And forgotten factories-
The open-ended question marks
As to what was made here.
We were made here:
Beneath the diminishing glow
Of the headlight
On the last train out.