Billowing Skirts of Illusion

There is no longer a place called dread.;
The bedlam of my fears conjuring.
A tarnished place streaked with lies;
the greasepaint smudges of someone else’s perception,
the residuals of experiences that no longer are.
All that I feared was a lie...
Fenced myself in with the pickets of limitation,
dove into the billowing skirts of illusion
and hid behind the folds of a fool’s creases.

There is no longer a place called dread,
and I am no longer a child wandering the streets
of someone else’s will, a dictating magpie of trepidation
screeching in my ear....
Subject to the whims and lunacy of lost adults,
the mistakes and delights of fools.

The place called dread is an entity
that needs to be fed fistfuls of lies
and platters of fear...that draw it near
with nourishment.
The place called dread needs us to ignore
the magnificent now, needs us to be blinded
to whatever growth we may have achieved.
Needs us to believe we are still small and helpless
and have not moved from yesterday,
Still a child,
hiding in the billowing skirts of illusion.

Reviews

[caryhoneybee]

Wow, this incredible.
The poigniant imagary made me have gooseflesh!
This is forceful and subtly beautiful, absolutely!

[Wildfleour]

A wonderful piece. I hope you consider a "friend connection" . I am already an admirer of your work!

[lady o]

yes ~ and Yes and YES.... most lovely and beautiful and speaks to me.... love your work