(n.) the delusion of things being more beautiful than they really are.
﹊
Here's to the road less traveled by,
One where tainted stars had collapsed into the void of night,
One where blindfolded dreams reach out towards blinded dreamers,
One where one cup is either half empty or half full in a world of strangers.
Here's to a token of desire,
Balanced by the slither of conviction,
Balanced by the slither of farewells,
But taken only so little away from their own orthodox of spells.
Here's to hands of deception,
Serenely pulling you away from a storm,
Towards a hurricane that you are not set to endure,
Chipped shields of glass that pierce through your own threshold
of disclosure.
If what we perceived as fiction were real,
And if what we perceived as reality is all but fiction,
Will we live in the midst of all our dreams?
But nightmares to all those that never sleep?
Yet at the end of all limitless possibilities,
Life wasn't ready for a daring adventure,
Or entranced to the melodic tune of an undiscovered instrument.
As here I am tightly pacing through the crowded streets
of society in the delusion of foreseen commitment.
YOU ARE READING
sonder
Poetry(poetry) / (n.) the realization that each random passerby is living a life a vivid and complex as your own. all i can say is, the world has a mind of its own, and this poetry book is a whole multitude away.
