Nichole

Our enchantment Solace desperately seeking demolition Actual reality, actually pillows-made. Lost forever in desire of this transcendence Only when our minds are lost, long, free To wonder Dream of that half-lit sky, broken only by half-rained clouds. But I do exist in existential solitude Baffled and berated, taken though willing, you and I. We are not the lyres, cymbals of attraction, drumming at doors It shouldn't be this concrete note But the trucks tumble it all over our town A civilization once rampant with titanic lions. This was us, more of us than ever before—the odds More of us than there ever will be— the ends. Time saunters on into sepia Cascading Truth delights from his Devil’s doorstep. And that happily ever, happily contrary Happily made a Popsicle house.