i am
the scarecrow,
the tin man,
the cowardly lion,
dorothy, and toto
all in different
moments throughout
most every day

drawn,
a bipolar moth,
to flames
no more real
than the great
and delusional
wizard himself
a winged ape
spinning lost
in the storms
oscillating over
abandoned farms
in a foreclosure
of american dream

my tick tock
wheezing heart
following
yellow brick
dead ends unable
to differentiate
the cold stones
and caution tape
around frozen
beauties with
no interest in
an earnest fool
other than as
a collectible
to be hidden away

i click my heels
whispering her name
three times only
to realize there
is no place quite
like the home once
gleaming in her smile
no more than poppy
induced deliriums
in adoration’s long
demise into disdain