I loved everything I’d seen about her
But peculiarly, she knew nothing of me
I truly experienced a delicate abruptness
Needless to say I felt lost in the contrast
Was it all fiction itself, or worse, was I?
Could I be the abstract thought-dream;
That never comes to fruit, or animation?
Oh how the turn of a lens never changes
Stories and fairy-tales oft blur reality
But not her, not from my perceptive point
And yes, I tweaked the rules of evidence
How could I not, in the spirit of fairness?
Metamorphism was at play, or to blame
After all, she moved me, in every way
Like some soul magnet, slowly pulling
Resistance: had never become a thought
And if she was a mere dream herself;
I’d prefer remaining fast at rest, forever
It feels rather hellish, straddling a threshold
Being pulled back and forth, for loves sake
Between imperfect life and perfect delusions
No wonder so many go mad to love…perfection
Poet of the Light © 2019