BACK TO THE CAVE

It was quite light outside,
a warm day in a dry season.
A river lining the pathway
licked our pace,
unaware of so much haste.
I refused the offerings of the day,
preferred instead to descend
back into the cave.
Slowly, my groping eyes
tried to pick up the ends
of the glowing threads
which spread through the web
of shades in all directions
only to make out in the end
even more shadows.
In time, already lodged,
I rested hat and life on neighbouring seats.
And as fantasy deployed its plots,
I felt sort reminded
of that so-called reality I left
suspended on the outside up above,
though I admit it has lately become
far too black and white for my liking,
and had better let itself go less numbed
by the surrogate tales of its own disasters.
However, when a raucous actress
in an old fashioned pitch says
I love you, it is light and verb
shed only to make sense of this world.
And lest careless routine or callousness
eventually rip us off,
scattering our shreds
just all over,
so they can't be rejoined,
before being lured back
into the eye of the city,
we can now and then dye our lives
for two or more hours
in Technicolor.