What Is Real


So fast, the willow trees are dying beneath us,

Our feet too hollow to touch the ground,

With tenderness, my arms reach out to you, howling,

Calling you my masterpiece, my creation,

Although you are real, this world is real,

My life is real, but is each breath I take?

An eternity, lost in a flash, a gunshot,

An emotion forgotten, pushed past the waves,

Sorrow filling my lungs with the smell of carnations,

As we run up the hill of ages,

Our feet grow tired, but our minds cannot rest,

We are free in this world, our own world,

And that is real.

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