A
small island is surrounded by dark swirling water,
With
a single coconut bearing palm tree
In
which the sun shows contently down upon.
No
one around, just you, your lover,
Two
lawn chairs, and two coconuts with straw holes punched out.
Paradise
isn't what it seems.
Cigarette
smoke looms and lingers as if
Surrounded
by a wide expanse of endless unknown.
Ashes
fall and fumes arise,
The
aroma engulfing the air around.
Sticky
residue reflects off of the table
From
the last dreamer's coconut canteen.
The
chairs sit stiff with uncushioned backs.
The
shady leaning palm is not a tree at all, but
A
centerpiece consisting of brightly decorated
Fake
flowers and assorted greenery.
Dimly
lit candles and suspended incandescent lighting
Show
about the room,
Enough
to see,
But
enough to hide the unreality.
A
curtain of lies burning from the filaments
Hides
the truth.
In
my eyes you looked, as if the island was replaced by mid-city hour and said
"Let's just stick with McDonald's."
