DREAMS

In a flashbulb, cut-scene existence,
I make my perfection.
I snip out this face, that body
And paste to whatever part of mind
Needs to pleasantly picked at.
I live in and above this collage,
Its gaps filled in with worthless pap,
Weakened substance once removed.
I hover through self-scripted dialogue,
Planned, produced, and populated,
Cast by the creator “I,”
And spoken by photo-mannequins,
Crude representations
Of a cruder truth.
Here, nonsense is embraced,
Kept warm at the fickle, flick’ring flame,
Cultivated in regular rows,
Sprouting, blossoming
A phosphorescent gray.
But when desire here is most nearly realized,
When that wonder is most nearly accepted,
That is when it is farthest, falsest,
As indicated by the flashing hours and slits of moonglow.
And so, in a moment of self-awareness,
It is seen.
Tampering exposed for what it is,
And I know that these things can’t exist,
This world will never be,
So long as I’m awake.