This plane, our plane. Has crashed and we the chosen few are but falling debris raining down on "if..."
* * *
I awoke frantically and checking myself as if looking for a mystic lashing of stigmata... nothing (yet).
Nothing but a silly dream, a tonic from the very goblet which hold all the dreams we haven't dreamed yet, and a caterpillar like the devil's very own tequilla mix. The world's become a tea party.
Do normal people think like this? Do they depart from images of nude women and singing seraphim to find a demon caterpillar devouring their mind?
Fluttering a new formed butterfly awaits the second trial of the living god, pitch black wings in direct contrast to the horizon's deepest pink.
Was the hatter right? A minuet on broken glass, a picture perfect sin?
They never found her lying in that box. A hide with no seek.

This moon is wrong.

Yes
No
Do nothing