The illusion is that you are simply reading this poem.
The reality is that this is more than a poem.
This is a beggar's knife, a blooming tulip.

This is a soldier marching through war torn fields of wheat.

You on your deathbed.

This is Li Po laughing madly underground.
This is not a ******* poem.
This is a horse asleep, a butterfly fluttering in your mind.

This is the devil's circus.

You are not reading this text.
The text is reading you.
Feel it?
It's a cobra coiled to attack, an eagle circling the sky.

This is not a poem, poems are dull, they make you sleep.

These words are for your ailing madness, the one that makes you walk the streets.