We poets who set our pens to paper to muse
Are often unable to sufficiently fuse
The way we perceive our world to be
With the true condition of reality.
For we poets often see angels where mere mortals are,
And we gaze upon beautiful eyes and envision stars.
As children stare at clouds and see things that are not real,
We watch as our world slowly transforms into what we feel.
Our words have purpose because they open the eyes
Of those too close-minded to see past the world's lies
Because we believe that just because this is reality,
It does not mean that it will always have to be.
For just one moment in time we are able to pretend
That our future can change into the present we bend,
And though truth is truth apart from relativity,
We hope that life as we know it is only temporary.
