Illusions

Free verse poetry

Smoke-screens and fog machines

and men behind the curtains.

The curtain is a quilted thing,

patterns of days long past.

We watched it burn

and watched it crumble;

Remains lay scattered all around,

tall shadows and shades forgotten.

What does the man say

with his hand upon the button?

"This needs to be done," he cries,

"we need to move forward," he pleads.

The fog begins to thicken,

smoke's onward march begins.

A shriek is heard from far away,

a child wants his mother.

Fictitious Finds