How can this be?
These vessels swim on
A cellophane sea

It’s art,

As they move
Slowly constricted
Somewhat restricted, on
A cellophane sea

The crane swoops down
Barely misses a fish with
Tissue paper fins
It would have
Been a meager
Lunch

The eye of
A paper mache
Hurricane moves in,
Slowly crawls
It flows,
It flows,
They all survive,
On a cellophane sea

What is this
A thin line
I can’t see
Playing tracks
Records are now
Becoming obsolete

A thick line
I can’t be
Easily inspired
A runaway train
Off tracks
Made of iron rails
Replaced by steel
In this modern
World

The only truth
That remains
Is taken in our youth

Dust in a bowl,
an empty page.

You are the dust gathering, day by day.  A mirror image of an empty page, the stars are shining but your curtains obscure.