Is this real?
I swear it can’t be, yet – I feel the breeze in my hair; I can
smell the lilac in the air.
Can it be?
The mind is capable of so many forms of deceit, yet – those mountains
are purer than abject fantasy; their detail too scrupulous to deny.
But how?
Does it matter? yet – the waning sun compels my senses into
a longing regret; the torrid radiance has set my mind meandering.
Why?
The only question with which man’s heart is truly concerned,
yet – the beauty is abstract and conscious of itself like some sort of Wilde
prose; I find myself content to sit and wonder.
Isn’t it beautiful?
The conceptions of a madman always yield bountifully, yet –
day gives way to night as the sun sets behind the hilltops; I am once again
left with my thoughts broiling beneath the heat of my imagination.
What is its significance?
I don’t know and I believe I never shall, yet – somehow I
understand – that is the point.
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