The Cost of Fantasy

Something we don’t know the cost of until it’s too late

We don’t know the cost until it’s sunk

No primal scream to warn us

We don’t know it’s air until we try to hold it

Cupping it in our hands, begging for someone take it

Frozen like a block of ice

Where the only way to fill the space is to melt

Grounded only in the either/or

Do we answer David’s knock empty-handed?

Or do we just keep hovering his statue?

Embracing the fact that when we finally see, we lose

Duality at its best

The most selfless thing we can do, dressed in the sheepish clothes of self-indulgence

Tell me, what’s that exchange rate?

How do I pay for my fantasy?

Realizing something we didn’t know

Or being smart enough to collect the consolation prize

What does my fantasy look like?

And do I go back for more?