Phantasmagoria

Have I turned into a ghost talking? Caved by the riddle of time?

A wanna-be epitome of light in this rather mischievous reality?

That’s probably and most certainly how my muse would love to speak of it,

but as it is in these current shades of duality, it might also be reversed.

Life at times seems to me like a phantasmagoria of lucid delusion,

a phantasma rarely captured other than rendered or carved in art,

projected by a rear lantern, almost a daydream, perhaps a nightmare,

as a perpetual, sinister tangoing between the personas of Love and Fear.

Riddles, mazes, mysteries, fathomless mirroring on the wall,

changing successions of imagery, combined in my vivid fantasy.

Adrift from hell and into heaven, a timeless roaming in my being,

the lonely now becomes the lover, the blind man shifts into all-seeing.

I lose control of the conscious mind to secrets for my soul to find,

in tangled, nearly indivisible knots of mysticism and reality.

Reflection of my dormant fears, the spells of an inverted world,

in which the bounds of the natural and the unnatural have been blurred.

I oddly feel like Alice in Wonderland, trapped in a composition of Dali,

reciting Edgar Alan Poe’s tell-tale heart, full of hyperboles and puns.

Maybe uncertainty of existence is becoming an integral part of my illusion,

turning my muse into a Phantasmagoria to prepare my soul for the unknown.