By Scott Bailey © 2006
Six flashes of gold beneath the mirrored air.
Ripples reach out to my feet.
Blurred images pass here and there.
Their intrusion indiscreet.
The casters of these images,
against their prison rail.
Disgust contorts their visages.
Behind a lacy veil.
What is true they scorn and spurn.
Blurred figures in a shaky land.
To look up! They will never learn.
And see the clear truth at hand.