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Dick and Jane never had sex
yet their sugar-coated reality
was always so tangible.
As was puritan simplicity
and my clean sheets
while I wore my
Sunday dress and through my rosy
glasses, I perceived my drink.
The superfluous goblet
generously inebriated me with hope
and I drank, the torrents
flowing over my parched tongue
and salvaging my throat.
Giving me new perspective,
new ambition.
Even when lacking my sugar coating.
Dick and Jane ran through the fields
with little Spot
aimlessly and eternally.
I tried to follow
and attempted to reach the
nirvana of their oblivion.
I must have gotten lost
as I always find myself in the humanity
which reminds me of logic
and my cognizance (of knowledge)
which I would have rather
left at the banks of the muddy river
with all the other things
I've tried to forget
remembering.
Gulliver wandering carelessly
through dimensions
only to learn of his own nature.
I would have done the same
but the luxury is not afforded to me
as my leg is shackled by this
musky everything.
And I acknowledge deeply
my own ignorance
in vain hopes of drinking from that
Pierian Spring.
But logic dictates
but one logical result
of such a brazen aspiration.
I shall choke
and I shall drown hopelessly in
(my) illusions (delusions?).
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