I see the curtain
In the window across from mine
And I tell myself, the storyteller that I am,
It isn’t a curtain
But a flare
Of a flamenco dancer’s skirt
Or an enormous white sea wave
Curled at the top, a frill of white foam on its edge
Both of which, will, within a second
Deflate, descend,
Pretending as if nothing happened.
And perhaps,
Nothing did happen.
Look at the curtain now,
crash-dived into an odd stillness
As if nothing had ever started or ended
It always was, is, and will stand motionless
Where it was and will remain.
Which brings me to the point
I was trying to make,
That isn’t everything we discern, after all,
As they say,
Just an illusion?
Vanilla Hues 