The paint is flaking off the side of the house
like a pixelated sheet from a cyber dream
that reveals the surprising texture of life
underneath. It makes me think that everything
might be pretense and illusion—precisely
in that order. Cause we pretend we don't see
what's always in front of us, screaming at us,
touching us, an ever-welcoming orgy of joy.
I think it probably scares us to admit that once
we knew this, we participated in the communion
with every aspect of reality in an endless game.
We build our illusion in order to make sense
of the pretense that we might ever be in control
of anything. But the world has a way of diffusing
all the different layers and colors we impose
upon it. The rain, perhaps, or simply the droning
passage of the seasons scrapes off our efficient
but ultimately futile labor. The flakes remain
glued to the wet grass, they become yet another
piece of the puzzle we can never hope to finish,
the beautiful, non-composting particles of decay.