By Thomas Page

I’d like to think that what I am seeing is real

And not an illusion

Or worst yet

An allusion

To something beyond my grey-matter’s comprehension.

Whenever something that shouldn’t should

We like to blame rabbits pulled from hats

Instead of the eye watching the moving hands.

Whenever the claw in that machine drops the toy

We like blame the janky claw

Instead of the hand that moves it.

Is everything an allusion to an illusion

That connects all of us

On this rock

In the expanse of space

Which itself is in even more space.

You can tie Styrofoam on a string

And say that this is what the world is

But people will still call it flat

And the globe an illusion

Blaming the higherups

Who somehow can steamroll a planet

Saying I’ll believe it when I see it.

They want to see the rabbit

Not the hand.

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