Says the antiquarian in you
Dating light language residue
And the twin flame muses
Mysterious reappearance
In Victorian Fitzrovia,
"Regression through the mirrors of time."
We'll take the Subie on Sunday
As the healing room needs to heal
From the illusions of rainbows --
If they aren't, what is real?
If they aren't, maybe someone
Can tell us of what they consist
Besides water and air
Which we are too
But don't like to gloat about it.
It's a sticky wicket predicament,
Knowing how many skins
To leaf through
To get to the first illusion,
From whence all others sprung.
It's silver then gold, black
And then yellow, then rain
And a rainbow, but the hill
Itself gets its strength
From an El Toro of belief,
Nevermind the clouds,
What we want to deny
Are kissing crows and dragon wings.
And what of the black balloon
That American Beauty'ed all over the street,
What can we take it to mean
When it eludes even our touch?
The shadow is the tree this time,
What by seeing it can become,
Something to take up space in the aether
And mirror in darkness
A void beyond the buzz of Elmer the Crow
That brings the loveliest thoughts
From the cold storages
To the blue flame of life
Burning all artifice away,
What is not real,
All we see.
