Perhaps, it is all just perception;
This life we live, within
The confines of the mind’s deception.
The possibilities swirl in every direction;
They whirl and twirl,
To avoid any logical mental detection.
Still, poets impart written projections -
Through which their dreams, now begin;
To see pigmented, inky, visual conceptions.
Pulled from a distant, unseen direction;
Drawn in, they unfurl,
Without any verbalized inflection.
To create a cutting poetic edge,
The life is sharpened upon a ledge;
Till there are new heightened senses,
And there are no more dull pretenses.
Reality is composed of tiny molecules.
Poets looking at life under a microscope,
They will expose many hidden rules.
Starting out, in the dark, they grope.
So like a person with a looking glass:
The obvious, near, and clear
A poet looks past; till discernable, is passed
And with excitement and fear
The obscure becomes plain, at last.
Composed By: Andrew Drucker
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