The pretense of circular reasoning paints the eyes
a misty shade of dull.
Eyes that view, from the dragon perch
of a counterclockwise carousel,
imagined scenery with a sprinkling of dreams.

A Gothic vision of crashing waves
against the grayish cliffs
that rise to a foggy grass clad plain
where sits the emblematic gabled home
with ****** in the windows.

The calliope moans a dragging tune
to match it's steady spin.
the sound of wind through tarnished brass
archaic and unsettling, a broken drag
of whiny sounding notes in a symphony of impotence.

You seem to look and dress the part
of the person you portray;
feigning superficiality for acceptance in the world
I, myself, am not for a second fooled.
You are the very essence of substance and depth

The carousel comes to a gradual halt
a hesitant dismount;
back to your prison of practicality and need;
visions pass from ominous to pastoral tranquility
The eccentric dragon of blue and gold awaits your return.