Sculpted Reality

I place my clay into the sculpters pallid hands and press play

Images flicker of white rabbits with antiquated watches 

There is no black or smell of decay

Urban buildings and streets curl like old paint redesigning the sky 

Waiting for a train to take me to the moon my coffee mug shatters

Sunshine crowns, we bite chapped lips caressing lavender lions

Racing to class, my bell-bottom jeans are stuck in the motorcycle tire 

I can't read the warning signs

Soaring off the cliff into the abysss, I land in reality

The sculpter pauses, lifting the layers

Clock beating, heart beeping

Reality is at best a knock-off of my dreams

Without which, my life would have no meaning