On Wasting Invitations of Elsinore and More

Fairly often I find these little moments on the ground
Wasted, everywhere
Good sumaritans stop and pick them up
And throw them out
But the real Wonkas know such bits and pieces
To be the actual fabric of reality
Sinews and strands to be repurposed and rewoven
Back into the ropes on the pulleys of a special window looking in to a secret place
The face of the deep
Far off in the heavens
Out there beyond the never lands
Is space
Not the final frontier, merely the next
Before we phase through dimensions
After we’ve conquered Earth
“We are conquerors too, you know”
The vadely Wonka perspired
“But we conquer habit, building rich wonder where desires meet,
A sweet tooth for the fantasy of our obsessions,
We made such things only imaginations can imagine”
I stopped and stared at the Wonka,
His technologies unknown to me- a man of science
How improbable would it be if he merely had an improbability machine?
Fabricated existence of every impossible kind.
We live in a world- a world of darknesses and humors
And here a light, absurder still than the real and still real
My, how I claimed the faith, right quick,
Ran for days on nightly jars of the quickening
Strawberry milked my vision for the clues to
The pink tint, Emerald mine eyes to see an emerald city
Who could resist such sweets, such bending of realities
Beyond the laws of physics- they had found- neigh, made- the meta
Turned my back on NASA so I could reach the stars
Crimson warfaced stood the planet near Mars
Missionary flights to forever live in Red
Thought off of what dreams terrestrians had fed
Lead to a head yet again, more news at 10
Warm wooden room coffee in hand, the small ribboned box sat before me, between us, the Wonka and I.
“If you ever want to indulge… I’m sure you’ll find us.”
Eyeing at the box for but a moment,
A moment I lost-
Before looking me in the eye, wore a warm welcoming smile
Like Wonka knew we had once been good friends, and will someday be again
Couldn’t wait to see me soon.
And left…
The box, bluejay eggshell blue, thickly painted- somewhat shell-like
Like that of a shell from the sea now dried of life and home
With a ribbon like a fudge
it encaked itself
and inside?
Inside, nothing,
But for the golden treasure beneath it’s lid- the words “Eat Me”.

I have searched forever looking for this sweet nothing lost perhaps evermore to streets of garbage memories, forgotten dreams of Elsinore.


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