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?