When we cannot but glimpse
An object's attraction,
we become too enthralled with
Invention's abstraction

And construct and compend
A tome's worth of fiction
To quench the soul's thirst
And the mind's new addiction.

So women become angels -
Their faces, now paintings -
And all the high symbols
Are dragged through the taintings

Of human concoction
And improbability.
For a person is not
Some false fantasy

But merely a creature
As fallen as 'you,'
With no higher features,
Or sublime attributes.

Only in the mind
Do those things exist -
Where faeries and witches
And dragons subsist;

Where children run freely
And all lives are merry;
Instead of this real world -
Both frightful and scary.

To the true traits of humans
We are so well-attuned
That we flee to the mind
To distract from our doom.

And so we compress,
And distort and amend
The visions we see,
With the ones we pretend.