Sober in Xanadu

This day is no different from last
night’s phantasmagoric REM cycle.
The past six years are just another
dream within this adult dream,
within this life dream.

One within another like my babushka
dolls that are a perfect metaphor for life.

Poe, all that we see is but time
within time, reason within reason,
illusion within illusion.

We are all tripping on acid,
all watching A Clockwork Orange
from our life towers like ink pens
guided, ruled by the master poet.

This dramatic fiasco will be nothing
but a forgotten high in a few years.
I’ll remember this bad dream through
life’s bell jar sitting quietly in another
bell jar.

Maybe we’re all in the same damn bell jar.
Maybe we’re all but God’s bad dream,
his snores like profanity in a cathedral.