Maybe we’re a millisecond in time.
Our sky, a reflective sheet of paper without lines.
the inside of a globe shaped toy,
a Kinder egg,
and we are the plastic joy.
Or perhaps our burning sun is the flicker of a match,
a moments flame with no fire to catch.
The moon, a child’s favoured sphere,
the white marble they promised to always keep near.
What if we are stuck in darkness beneath a child’s bed
among the glittered flakes of skin of a far off species that we can not even begin to comprehend.
Maybe a caterpillar collection gone wrong
an over run creation, futuristic Darwin, but blonde,
he is the species and we are the insects,
falling rain the tears this little thing wept
the urine that seeps through the mattress.
Maybe our trees are stray blades of grass
and we are the fairies, the dying last.
Trapped in a jar of suspended belief,
and our planet Terra is simply a leaf.
Karen Hayward ©2016