I might have thought by now
you would have found the exit
from the hall of mirrors.
But no. You are mesmerized
by its dreamy distortions,
imprisoned by its illusions.
Perception arises from wave
lengths and shadows, reflections
against a shifting surface.
Tall becomes short, wide
becomes narrow. Eyes bulge,
then shrink into shocked sockets.
You must linger to feed the hunger.
Within the funhouse walls,
where the insecure, the paranoid,
the narcissistic control the asylum,
the Great Sphincter,
sustained by his Ras Putin coterie,
emits his daily surprises
to the surprise of no one
but the angry, the gleeful gullible,
the sheep led to COVID slaughter
while wildfires consume the hallways.
Is the funhouse aflame?
Now that changes the climate
amid the melting glass
of the deteriorating mirrors.
Alas.
Jim Schwab