In the Illusion’s Arms

Poetry

The first wave of illusion is always the worst,

right when it picks me up and cradles me

in its ever-provoking tide of whimsy

that nonetheless bears dread.

I remember getting lost, once,

caught under the realm of one

that bled into others, building.

Each apparition gave its greeting,

smiles like the blades of scythes,

and I knew I was trapped in my senses.

The talks and the pills didn’t work

as they tried to drag me out of a time

where I was thriving in ways unknown

even as my exterior began to crumble.

I thought I knew better, “never again,”

but as soon as you flush the tablets

down the porcelain toilet bowl

it’s only a matter of time before

the cracks begin to reappear.

The illusions began again in earnest,

each one more troubling than the last,

and soon I found myself in straits