Blades of silver-lined grass have cushioned the fall on my ass –
once again, I take a hostage and somehow inch my way passed;
fingers shake too much to hold still: my pistol at will;
thoughts racing too far ahead of me and going too fast.
Trees bearing perfectly painted Paper-Mache fruits –
line the mirage of roads that lead so far from the truth;
it turns out anyway: when the sun sinks every day,
it’s nothing more than another trick played on me, too.
The moon hangs up high only long enough to revive –
the parts of this pirated vessel that can “look alive”;
but then it once more – gets replaced just like before,
a solar mockery of a lunar will to simply survive.
The cardboard doors fall in as soon as the knocking begins;
a façade made to look like there’s humanity within;
templates of bodies without faces – drafted in pencil-thin traces,
erases the faces away where the canvas wears thin.
Wrapped stupidly inside a snuggly blanket of lies;
happy and obliviously beneath a tissue paper sky;
soothed to death – by my very breath;
too tired to break down and too numb to wonder why.
And everyone says I’ve lost my mind this time;
in which case, the truth has been quite unkind –
it stands, aloof – evidence doesn’t spell ‘proof’;
enlightenment so poisonous, it leaves the sun blind.