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The Illusionist of Ilium

                                       The Illusionist of Ilium

Time wound down to tedium,
a burst balloon of helium,
so Bruno Quillium,
the Illusionist of Ilium,
lay splayed upon a podium,
a dried crocus in his cranium,
played on his melodium,
hummed on his harmonium,
quotes from Platonic symposium,
tunes that transported him,
from paradise to pandemonium.
Pellucid with plutonium,
announced his mind millennium,
to those to whom he was the medium,
he, the Illusionist of Ilium,
they, his consortium,
who levelled him like lithium,
kept him lithe like a gymnasium,
endorsed his equilibrium.

So Bruno, like a mynah bird,
seldom seen, never heard,
englobed in his glassy dome,
his prism home of frozen foam,
suspended his head, alone, above the stage,
composed of images, hard to gauge.
A bull elephant in full stampede,
now a flying craft spreading seed,
sirens calling sailors from rainbow rocks,
mermaids breaking free from chains and locks,
with glistening skin, more yellow than barleycorn,
necklaces of coral shells and shards of brontosaurus horn,
an octopus ray gunning a bank,
a herd of ostriches chased by a rose bedecked tank,
multi-mirror signs that sanity is unsealed,
what the surreal alone can show is now revealed.

Time wound up from tedium,
ascended to high helium,
a bright circus in his cranium,
flashed into his atrium,
like ruby resin radium,
so Bruno Quillium,
the Illusionist of Ilium,
felt he had imbibed beyond his modicum
navy rum, more extreme than medium.

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