People Mature into Mirages

by SpokenOh


I am,
Shakespeare in a world of imposters,
All the fakes I’ve come to hate,
Are words I must foster,
Into life.
Into light.

It’s a handful, reading this Braille to the masses
A landfill of opinions that I’ve put into caskets
And I will never mask it, with a flag or color.
I’ll wait for the reprise of life
Into summer.

Soapbox impressions, botox expressions,
shadows causing inflection.

Children of the corn; a pilgrim of the norm,
Scorning the mourning which takes place
After the storm.
After the war.

A glinting detection, a squinting erection
Of the sundial playing God in a dialogue
Of regression.

A child smiles, says,
“People mature into mirages, collages,
mosaics of the Ancients. Wait patient,
sunrise will make truth blatant, as
we stand vacant to belief.”