(no title)

The line between the very real and the fantasy is a thin one,
a chasm chasing a lighting bolt scar on the ground.
Mascara painted eyes skimming the surface of rouge stained hills.
I turn, pause in the tumult, a piece of dust on a cd
skidding through the music.
Painted faces like clowns morph frantically into goulish horrors of nightmares.
No pauses, no skips, just gallons and gallons of candy apple red veneer
shimmering everyone.
Auroral brilliancy at its finest.
Belief emits from every open heart, flitting through the cosmic atmosphere
as fast as a hummingbird with eagle wings.
He turns, a mobile on strings, a puppet going through the motions of an uninspired life,
Twisting emotions like his arms, slowly pressing each shoulder forward,
stretching his lies and fears.
Raising my head, I spy a single tear, a lamentation against this so-called circus.
Mascarade! I scream, my word outpouring to the world.
Clowns swivel in their places, close their eyes, and fall away.
Is this the end?
My friend stops the silence with a look that could silence kings.
On my knees, I beg for my macrocosom, but he just slips away…