Hustling and Bustling

What we see is just a mere illusion, A vision of green trees gently swaying, We are all victims of a delusion, Leaves tumbling to the ground keep slaying. Breezes by as if nothing could matter, Liquid gliding down smoothly, gracefully, All running quickly from the Mad Hatter, Flowers blooming but not yet all fully. Yellow beams from high above the runners, Cracked concrete below all who dare to glide, Cars passing quickly, sounds like some gunners, A dream-like place only to want to hide. Serenity in all the hustling, Pure madness in all of the bustling.