The Lamps

The Lamps

She’s a master
I’m just her poet slave
Delusion is a narrative mistress substance
Seeps down in the wood
Gets down in the grout
Parachutes in from dark balconies
Corners the market
Accelerates through the blood
And gone before it came

The world is afire with a flood
Of clues and lies and
Multiinational impersonators
But where’s the answer
No one told me the ultimate game would lead
To the ultimate surprise

Even sheltered from the rain
Even numbed of our own pain
Even for the gift of gratitude
And forgiveness that ensued
Even in a saunter down the road
Even if we hit a home run
What if we’re still under the spell
Even if we’re still under the gun
From somewhere other than
Physical certainty with a dash
Of quantum uncertainty
In heart wrenching glimpses of lost dignity
Paid for with algorithmic cash
As you pray
They keep turning up
And turning down the lamps

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