The Artificial Universe

Across the lavender skies of early evening,

I thought I saw a shooting star.

But it morphed into a tired plane

picking it's solitary way

through the yawning clouds.


The lamp's reflection haunts me

as I mistake her o-mouth

for Satan's full moon.

At a young age I was taught

to be wary of her indulgent beauty,

her only ugly feature being

that ability to bring out

the worst in people.


As I mull over this with one eye fixed out,

the wind slices through the gap between

the wall and my window

whispering why.


Into my view

the genuine night-pearl

stalks up heaven's stairs and

how she scorns my inability to

differentiate between

a deity and a light-bulb.


Her eerie condescension

fills me with the urge

to run down

the dim dozing corridor

and slap my little brother hard.