They failed me, built me up
with lies and illusions,
promised visions
far beyond mortal attainment . . .
told me fairy tales
were real and fantasies
were only life turned around.

What am I without them?
Is there substance
behind fabrication?
I cease to know . . . .
I believed in white knights,
castles nestled
in misty hollows,
eternal beauty and
supreme goodness.

Without those illusions,
that tapestry covering
of silvery hues,
is there a being of worth?
Am I enough
without the pretense
of mystery and magic?
What is a spider
without its web?

There is a promise
in some long ago story
that speaks of contentment
with the being
we are contained in . . .
but what of the quest?
Mere flesh and raw emotion
are all that remains
of the fantasy created . . .

… is that enough
to capture respect,
to gain prestige?
If naked I stand
among the masses,
will I be heard
above the moans?

Or will I become
just another frail being,
trudging down her
pathway to hell,
a wasted sacrament
to a parent’s pride . . .

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