Alone and isolated,
nothing is real.
The fiery stars are set ablaze,
burning up,
in their own luminescence.
Nothing is real.
Placed before the tumbling hills,
tripping over one another,
like children playing in the dark,
is the imaginary town.
Small houses, bursting bright yellow.
The blue clouds pulled like taffy on a hook,
stretching, swirling, folding.
Pulling in the wind,
twisting, turning.
Nothing is real.
Before me is a spire,
Lifeless, dark, black.
It stands disturbing and eerie. 
It’s fire-like essence is anonymous.
Secluded, exaggerated, unfrequented.
In a town where the people don’t really exist,
I am alone.
Nothing is real.