maybe there is a love

maybe there is a love. perhaps it is all products
of our imagination, which runs away like children

scattering drops of dandelion seeds bursting pride.
lion’s roar, mimicing Tarzan’s yell, and the play begins

actors stride across the footlights, hovering clouds
painted on backdrops of mental construction paper

glued to the front of the shoebox diorama, held by bits
of string, just like a marionette dancing a ghoulish gravotte

Sir John Smith, parade ground polish and spit, blustering
sputtering, muttering ineffecient phrases of amourous intent

whilst flowers. The silence is still like a butter cake wrapped
in waxy paper, like hearts which beat synchronistically.