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.