Life’s Illusion (or, when Dotty is sad she writes mushy shite)


Nothing is truly what it seems. Love wears no righteous mask where sunlight creeps.

Water is air, to a fish, and dark is light when light absorbs gloom;

seconds span the night, and each step taken is a milestone passed and gone

as my wintered limbs spread upwards, my arms the branches of an old, old elm.

Seasons meet and merge, no word exists for those in-between days,

but time, in all its fickleness, is non-existent in a multi-layered dream.

Old lace and dainty pearls adorn the frilly hem of my chocolate dress,

and life, that frenzied satirist, pays lip-service to death.

I have grief at my window, in the form of a brand new day,

while I sit here, my well-worn soul too weak and settled in apathy.

Swifter than a dragonfly on wing, (know this),

the curve of a single tear, when touched, dissolves to dust.


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  1. This was heart wrenching, haunting and beautiful.
    None of which I expected after a title that combined the words mushy and shite.


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