And maybe I don't write real.
I write abstract.
And maybe that's okay.
That my vision of reality is more fluid and indefinite than what has been found on this fine ground.
I am a dreamer.
And yet I strive to know what's real and what's delusion, what's keen and what's confusion.
I too have walked this Earth long enough to know that sometimes lungs stop breathing and legs stop kicking and eyes stop seeing, and yet all the while I know our hearts don't have to stop beating.
While we have life let us continue seeing, continue feeling, continue dreaming.
So that maybe somehow all legs will keep kicking and lungs breathing and eyes perceiving and hearts receiving, and hands reaching.
And until this equilibrium,
This poem is about: