Mascotte

The mascotte in my dreams haunts me.

like the filters, it is hollow

drenched in pain and sorrow.

whatever they desire, is not for free.

You cannot make a deal out of a whim of the mascotte,

even if it seems so real.

but the urge to walk to it is frightning,

the warm aura caresses you as it does me

i bring you here, see for yourself

trauma wrapped in pages on an abandoned bookshelf

the mascotte is merely a thing, traumatic twin

of what your memories forsee