I might have thought by now

you would have found the exit

from the hall of mirrors.

But no. You are mesmerized

by its dreamy distortions,

imprisoned by its illusions.

Perception arises from wave

lengths and shadows, reflections

against a shifting surface.

Tall becomes short, wide

becomes narrow. Eyes bulge,

then shrink into shocked sockets.

You must linger to feed the hunger.

Within the funhouse walls,

where the insecure, the paranoid,

the narcissistic control the asylum,

the Great Sphincter,

sustained by his Ras Putin coterie,

emits his daily surprises

to the surprise of no one

but the angry, the gleeful gullible,

the sheep led to COVID slaughter

while wildfires consume the hallways.

Is the funhouse aflame?

Now that changes the climate

amid the melting glass

of the deteriorating mirrors.

Alas.

Jim Schwab