“Pan”

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,

the victorious.

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.

And pretending,

a good play,

may just unlock the secrets of the universe.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s