The feet of a dancer mingle
with the glitterings of a tenor
in the depths of eternal eternity
He can't help but laugh.

Knowledge knows true
the natural pretentious views of a world
made of wires and shadows and whispers unheard
this isn't made of sugar, but of firing electrons.

The amalgam of truth comes not from imagery
a painting of butterfly breaths timed to milliseconds
but of the young boy sitting in the laps of his seniors
chortling in the shadows of the darkness at the audience.

He knows truth. He knows honest in the arms of the best play
and jokes at the sugary saturation of image
in the depths of comrades' comforting arms
He laughs at folly and wires of creation.

For he created it out of nothing, came together
in darkest hours of burning need to bring forth depiction
and, though it may be unreal, the humanity lies beneath polished
cracks, in the love of boys, girls, men, women, ideas.

A cue for silence croons. All calculated. All ephemeral.
The deception lies on his wan face.
God arrives in the splendor of muscle memory.