The Vanishing

You know she is the magician
and not just his assistant
after she has left you
with no memory of who you had plans of becoming
before she took you inside her violet gypsy wagon.

That is the vanishing act.

She has perpetrated
all she needed for an audience’s applause
deep inside of you.
Their folding, clapping hands
get tangled in your viscera
and you struggle to take a breath.
All that remains is your lonely child
wandering the hallow organs
of a flapping circus tent.
The only voices that will greet you
are the peanut shells
crackling and cutting the underside
of your feet.
The romance of the confetti
is spoiled
by the realization you have been rained upon
by sparkling pigeon shit.

That is the price of admission.

Go on.
Drag your deflated blue balloon along the ground,
lead by kite string and your purple finger.
You are nothing but naked fish skins and rubber.
You will never fly.
You will never soar.
You will only grow cold because the moon
does not shine anymore.

And that is no longer just an illusion.
She is gone.

written on 03/27/2010 by: Matt Kane