It's not unorthodox by any means

To dream of things quite far beyond your reach

Perhaps your soul could show you how it leans

Revealing you don't practice what you preach

A static city, made of wax and dust

That totters gently on the edge of life

Could be refreshing, if I'm being just

But not quite so for those under the knife

What is it in the human mind that asks

If we are geared more wholly to the rough

Though we, content to bear the oft-spoke 'mask',

Refuse to chew the meat when it gets tough?

A wild want will grow within my heart

To live and die for someone I don't know

As though I could command such valiant art

As though I willingly could take the blow

Those who wish for war are cruel or young

And as these daydreams follow in cascade

The threat of loss of life is clear and strong

But that's the thrill of dancing on the blades