by Daulton Dickey

Sorrow is a mask you wear
When plucking tulips from the
Grave of continuity

Some things continue and
Some things fade and the burden
Of enlightenment shimmers beneath
The contusion of mimetic realism—
The fantasies and phantasia of ancestors
Too far removed from the indelible and
Intelligible source of
The inspiration for their own
Mimesis

Dread is the resolve you bare
When you stand on the ruins
Of a rung on the continuum
Interwoven with the crescendoing
Symphony of illusion

The notes are intangible yet
Experiential and the synthesis of
The conception of solidity quakes
The gaps in the matter fluttering inside
And beneath you
And these permutations vibrate in
The frequency of the optic nerve—
Then the sorrow transforms into
Flesh
And the mask becomes
You