We connoisseurs of fantasy
Who dress in different destinies and dreams
How we love to…
Imagine.
Myself is only tangible
With four fingers
Clinging to the cliff of identity
My mirror, memories
And reflections in others eyes
One finger fatigued
Reaches bent broken to the air
Wind brushes across
Whispering truths and lies
To the persisting four:
You can become anything,
Now two flail towards the sun.
You’re what you believe,
A claw mark is left behind.
Options are infinite,
A puff of dust. Only one clings.
You can never loose yourself,
My body tumbles through the air.
When I meet someone new
Through them I’m self aware
Not of my immaculate illusion,
But who I’ve become.
While I and those I love have held four fingers
Firmly pressing my actions to fit
Sun warped puzzle pieces of previous perception
And fantasize finding ourselves finished
Some day.
In a world where the inanimate is alive
And people are never the same
We pretend the river is still.
Perhaps we’re less malleable then my mind believes
But believing is better
Perhaps.
If there is no end to my fall
Am I doomed or have I discovered?
How it feels to fly.
To brace or embrace oneself.