Dreams, mockery, delusion,
a world of swirling impossibilities.
But there it is, that cauldron,
a morass of confused symbols.
The jumbled mind conscripts thought,
pulling together bits and pieces.
Sometimes believing them – the pieces,
for on the whole somewhere they exist.
Moments from the refuse of living,
rotting, deteriorating behind eyes.
And yet, it grows, evolves, expands,
encompassing the mental infinite space.
The jackass of playful creation,
has become a horror show puppeteer.
Sitting composed in elision fields,
disguised, it is not what it seems.
A parasol of tattered souls shouldered,
dressed in funeral casual raiment.
It is known, abhorred, but, not to be feared,
these phantasm fragments are loaned.
The hands of time reach the end hour,
a gentle nudge from a wakening alarm.
Swept by a solstice of curtain filtered light,
reality reigns with the gentle dawn.
That which temporally was given,
canceled, reclaimed, shelved.
The play is over receiving bad reviews,
with the echo of a cynical bray.
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour