The words
The petals
On a flower that
Thrives by appearance
Is only
Will merely
Be a flimsy
Taste of what's inside
Why price
By the eyes
The symmetry
Of flawed beauty
As though
As most
Are weighed by
Thoughtless ideals
For those
Four arrows
A sma...
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how easy it is, to sink further and further into a fabricated world. both realities are three-dimensional, dynamic, and anything else one could imagine, as long as you could bend it without breaking. the wistful wishes of an author's daydreaming, you could say, but is this world not a sculpture shaped by the wishes, dreams and nightmares of humanity? or is it the select few, those with iron crowns and ruby fists, who have the power to transcend the line between ideals and materiality? even so, there remains a chasm. we're not satisfied until impossibility is achieved. to what end would we rip apart this world to build a new one from its ashes? perhaps that is possible. perhaps we would run towards the light until the end of time, knowing it was a mirage. perhaps we can learn to sit and breathe in our words like oxygen, immerse in its arms, appreciate its beauty and let it take us to faraway places. fire can learn to build and not burn. air can teach caged birds how to fly, and even the ground will someday know its roots in the universe. but now, we'll satisfy ourselves with fiction and alternate realities, a timeline with branches that reach up to the sky, both planes untouchable, but also safe and equally full of prospect.
