IMPOSSIBLE

Perhaps a day or heartbeat is not truly
like the cringing bongs
from a grim reaper's time clock,
ticking, oh so ticking in one's thoughts,
till it turns to jelly
the spine's marrow of security and fire,
slowly carving away with a steak knife of anxiety
inch, by fragile inch
at all the gossamer entrees
of one's fleeting banquet in immortality myths.

But what mirror can ever truly cleanse
and hope to shine to a burnished revealing glow
every conjured ornament of hope
hung so desperately upon fantasia's floating tree.

Our eyes are fixed longingly
towards a gaze at the suns of our own creation,
some giving life to some seeing horizons unexplored,
while others only practice writing epitaphs.

Reality, becomes a tale of excuses
created by our senses,
yet it is what see as true
in the heart of our devotions,
which can imagine in silhouetted possibilities,
either nothing at all
or everything.