Vince
Plumber washed from the crawl space
A cigarette slowly littering into ashes,
it’s the image remaining;
all that rests
from my once heartfelt illusion.
So easy to say it all was a lie;
where illusory views
spring forth from within,
my dearest aptitude,
imagination.
Back to the reel,
the revolving picture frames.
All but luminescent pictorial lies?
manipulated view?
Maybe some,
the archive of celluloid;
now burnt.
At the very least
their ashes are really imaginative.
Vince
8–7–2016
