We, the humans, a species clothed in grey,
Powerful at birth but mundane with age,
Forgotten magic, lost in the race,
Slaves of our own hunger.
What a prison, this world is,
What an empty, magicless existance,
No dragons, elves, wands or swords,
Just cars, corporations, guns and bombs.
My head is a pantheon of fantasies,
My dreams, the seat of my thoughts,
The truth waits beyond my grasp,
So I cling, then, to imagination.
If my childlike heart speaks only in lies,
If death takes me before the wind can lift me,
I would rather drown in the blackened waters,
Than grow old staring at the stars I will never reach.
But if I could weave reality from the shadows of my mind,
If I could conjure the images burned in my heart,
I would fly on the wings of phoenices,
I would dance on the aetherial ocean.
What must I give for a blue moon to rise?
What must I pay for a chance to make real what is not?
Must I dwell in the prison of physics,
Until its draconian laws grind me to dust?