House of Wax

Frustration persists at the thought that nothing can be done,

paradise lost in one swift motion burned into memory like a fading photograph.

Everything we built is melting away,

the clocks on the wall dripping their sense of time onto the floor in a puddle of non-sensical jibberish

Hands of wax try to grasp formless liquid,

destined to fail as it quickly adheres to flesh and hardens into a monstrous amalgamation of scar-like tissue

Stare in disbelief at the end result, it won’t change anything

What a freakshow, trapped in a muscle museum doomed to walk the halls that continue to close in

All will melt and congeal, masterpieces ruined and lost to time as their waxen exteriors harden into the unrecognizable.

 

Pessimist Poet’s Words for Thought

“The difference between false memories and true ones is the same as for jewels: it is always the false ones that look the most real, the most brilliant.” Salvador Dali

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