Things get a little distorted,
Warped, if you will.
And then,
It's like looking into a foggy mirror.
It's all the same,
Just with a slight cover of steam.
Just that slight translucent feel.
That fogged-up mirror effect.
And you never know for sure,
But things shift,
And there's always that moment
In purgatory,
Where we have to wait
For the outcome,
For the distortion to become
Our reality.
And you sit in that figurative
Waiting room,
And you wait.
For whatever it is
To come out of surgery,
For the wounds to heal up
For the scars to settle back into skin.
And there's that moment
Of horror
And fear.
For everyone you love.
Because everything just got distorted
And I'm not quite sure
When the fog's gonna condense
And wash away,
To leave us
Looking different,
Yet the same.
It is as though
All has gone amiss.
But in that calm, serene way.
It's almost a grandmotherly
Sort of shroud.
Here someone goes,
Covering their faces with a chloroform-ed up rag,
Knocking them out again,
And I have been bound to a chair,
Because I don't know what to say
About the distortion.
Perhaps all is for naught.
Or for the better,
Perhaps
That makes her happy.
And that makes her upset.
She's got a new deal,
But maybe it's not what it seems.
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