Why is it that we are born with such imagination,
only to have it taken away when we grow older?
There are some of us left, it is true.
But we are not the mighty,
Weeping, strange angels we become,
crying over those who could have been and tortured by the veneer of existing.
What kind of life is that?
When we could use dust to fly instead?
We could do extraordinary things, it is true.
a good play,
may just unlock the secrets of the universe.