moonlight

and you walk
and walk
and walk into
the same room
over and over again.
The schizophrenic joker
takes you by the hand
and leads you
to the ice-cream man
who hands you a cone,
delicious as can be,
chocolate flavoured,
sprinkled with nuts on top.
The sitar-man sits
in the corner
and woos you
with his dreams of swirling
colours,
a kaleidoscope that keeps calling
and helps you fall lower
whenever the earth opens
to swallow you whole.
And there’s a knock
and in walks the man
on the moon,
toothy smile
and hunched back,
a white rabbit walking by,
his feet
are dirty from all the walking
and his smile has yellowed
with age
but sparkles still,
feeding off the sun.
So you speak to
the joker and the ice-cream man,
the sitar-man and the one from the moon
and you wonder why.
And the flickering
television screen shows
you your life in slow motion,
every detail making monsters
of little flowers of guilt.
A crimsoned hand
extends out of the mirror
and touches your lonely,
rotting body and the others say goodbye
and the dripping of blood wakes you
and you are pulled by the hand
and you dance a grim fandango
as you are pushed to the door
and you walk