Fantasy

Poison.

It touches the lips

disguised as ecstacy

and as it meets the tongue

it turns to sand

grainy and dispassionate.

A false hope

we’ve been taught to dream of,

flitting at the periphery

just beyond the line of sight,

so close

it’s as if you could taste it.

A truth

that doesn’t exist

never existed

couldn’t be bought or sold

A reality

that when fulfilled

on false terms

turned directly to a pumpkin

as the clock struck 12.