He is immature, a child at play,
Where words meant for jest lead him astray.
I, the mature, with a writer’s soul,
Shape worlds and thoughts, my mind’s control.
He cannot bear the jesting tone,
Fussing over seeds I’ve barely sown.
I am a reader, lost in my books,
He is the reality in puzzled looks.
My delusions bloom, a garden so vast,
He is the storm, a shadow cast.
A reality check to my woven dreams,
The starkness of life, or so it seems.
Yet perhaps, in his truth, there’s a place to grow,
To balance the light with what we know.
For even in contrast, a story’s born,
From delusion’s dusk to reality’s shadow.