Illusion
The rain fell down
Like marionette strings upon his shoulders
Grief stricken fibers
Of faded black rags
Clung desperately to his ashen skin
Afraid of losing themselves in the wind
He found his legs marching
Along a bridge stretched across
A river of plastic and steel currents
His breath lingered like clouds of dissolving dreams
In a basket to draw flies to his open chest
A tunnel lit by pasty orange lamps
Wraps its way through the labyrinth of his mortal eggshell
To the sensitive underbelly of his amniotic reality
Where spiders spin webs in his brain
To catch his thoughts
Sucking their blood and spitting out their skin
Piles of thin glossy cellophane
The illusion
March 2009
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