F is for fake

A squirming huddle
Of motorized nerves
Absorbing the story,
The lie,
The message.
Soft pumps
Revolving my eyes
Gone thin,
Silver paper
Cozy against my lobe,
My hands
Bound by
Cable
And my chest
Smothered by
The cot,
I suffer the morphine push-
Then,
Nothing.
Because if the
Story is a lie
And the medium is the message
Then fantasy
Is vanished
Like a moment,
Like an instant,
Like a prayer.