I live in a paper mache house,
in a cardboard town.
we are all fragile,
cut out people, with drawn-on faces,
carefully pencilled arms and legs,
shaded and colored to the near-illusion of realism.
our mountains are made of piles of crumpled notebook sheets,
if you go near, you can see snatches of discarded poetry,
words spread out along the wrinkled hills.
encouraging words, hard-to-read words, illegible words.
sometimes we sit in patterned boats,
on a blue road, unmoving, and stare up at the sky
here it's made of black cardboard paper,
dotted with poked-out stars.
I wonder what lies behind this dome, what is so bright
that it could light up a whole town,
through only these little dots,
and have energy to spare.
when the sun rises, attached to a popsicle stick,
we rise too, moving through the motions,
walking down the hastily-drawn streets,
and gluing back together our homes, ourselves.
am I the only one who wonders what is beyond the sky?
why the wind here sounds like words,
why the ground here shakes, sometimes,
as if there were giants, walking, dancing,
just outside our little sphere of reality.
(I imagine them vibrant, with no mistakes, errant scribbles
multicolored, and big, big, big. not as breakable,
living the reality of our make-believe)
might it answer some of my questions?
if I pressed my face to one of those high-up stars,
would I see a world beyond?
or simply more nothingness, more disappointment?
what a risk to take.