Cherub caricatures cloned in cerebral crypt,
rehearsed rote recollections
dictated by skewering sensations in crib whispers
infused into one's esteem library.
Feeling lost in the maze of misconceptions,
unable to find the corridor leading between
illusion and reality.
Using mirror as compass to find path to paradise,
fowl of fancy circling in gaze as desire's airy solicitors,
never sure if they are eagles or ravens,
deliverers or predators
Heart twirls a pirouette in surreal ballet
in hopes the steps will spin a revelation's trail
to guide one out of self pity's swamp,
stumbling over circumstance's steps.
Clinging to denial's looking glass for signs
of excuses' true north,
ignoring the vultures of guilt with their Cheshire grins,
dreaming of being Alice,
wishing Lewis Carroll was a prophet
and life had less paths with thorns.




Sounds familiar, in a surreal sense of the word. This is fantastic! Great take on the picture prompt!
6 old applause
