Architects of Illusion

The human eye is greedy for patterns,  

always weaving faces from whispers of static,  

always stealing shapes from ghostly clouds.  

A burnt slice of bread holds a sermon,  

a splash of water births a Madonna.  

We are architects of illusion, excavators  

of stories buried in milk foam galaxies.  

We press meaning onto the meaningless,  

trace wings onto chipped paint swirls,  

fingers flitting over ancient rock smudges,  

whispering, "Do you see it too?"  

Perhaps it’s loneliness painted in sepia,  

this need to believe the universe sees us,  

to pretend the heavens stumble onto  

kitchen counters or idle bathroom mirrors.  

It is a magic trick made of longing,  

looking for God in coffee stains,  

or mercy in a cracked windshield starburst.  

But oh, how beautiful to imagine everything  

watching us back, grinning in secret.