Checker-Clothed Donations

What's inside this wicker basket?
Oh. It's plastic.
Illusion of detail.
Some cheap facade.

I've turned it over.
The bottom, for now, the top.
Lids must be unhinged,
The contents dropped.

The optimist's illusion.
My optical deception.
Blurred before the touch,
Self reflection.

Of all the places.
Mind built oasis.
A picnic for the ants,
More than me.

They will consume,
And i will watch unburdened.
I'd say I'm deaf to my own self,
But that's unheard of.

What's inside this plastic basket?
But bought imitation.
False advertisement,
That I'm paying for.

Though, the ants are happy.
My illusion brought them miracle.
With such little work to bare,
Of my fruit.

And this makes the queen splendid.
Nor destroyed, or created,
Dumped contents of my content,
Energy i never wasted.

The basket is full,
Of whatever you can conjure.
Meaningless. Full of everything.
That's for the reader to ponder.

Thank you for your time,
That we both grant, you little ants.
That i am allowed to drop my mind,
Right on site.

The line that grab their little bits,
And head back deep underground,
Dismissing all the plastic shit,
Right on sight.