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.