There Is No Spoon
When the sun has set like a ball of fire
colors like a funeral pyre
crescent moon in deep blue sky
indigo blue that sears the eye
crickets start their monotonous beat
praying in the sultry heat
hand in hand and heart to heart
infants waken with a start
old man takes his dying breath
soul escapes his body's death
spiders cross doorways with their web
a work of art so filled with dread
the rapping on the midnight door
the ghost who's there was here before
a child cries out, a nightmare dreamed
realities blur and rip the seams
what may appear as solid fusion
is just an agreed upon illusion.
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