Potato Tree

He called himself Lucas; I still don't know if that was truly his name,

For he was a silver fox, he was always on the prowl, gentlemanly yet without shame.

Slippery as a bar of soap,

Around the sink he slides;

No stranger to the porcelain, the toothbrushes, or the elephant

In the room, with whom he'd once tried to elope.

He claimed to be 'handy', I said he was 'handsy', to which he poured me a cup of tea.

"At toast," he proclaimed, "to myself, and to my beloved potato tree!"

His insanity was inconsistent,

Perhaps a ploy,

Possibly just a consequence of the pressure he was under,

But it was prone to disappear in an instant.

There is no potato tree, you see, just a purple cat with an unsettling grin.

I am starting to feel panicked by the little paperclips nestled beneath my skin.

If we weren't stuck

In a cardboard box,

If the opinions, the comments, the judgement of reality

Didn't matter, perhaps we'd finally have some luck.

The oxygen is suffocating, molecules slowly turning a sickly shade of blue:

Perhaps in another life, 'Lucas', we could be simply me and you.

I'll miss your mind,

Your strange thoughts,

Your ramblings about jesters who once wore crowns...

It seems to be time that I left this world behind.

Won't you follow the trail of breadcrumbs out of this miserable realm?

Spectral light, dark apparitions, I see how this experience could overwhelm,

But we must run.

From the elephant,

From the science,

The atoms,

The ripped seams,

The cardboard,

The large fish, the small fish,

The man with the glass eye...

We must run

From the purple cat,

The one with the bloody grin.

We should find the place where the potato trees are at,

Then chop them all down to build ourselves a lovely flat.