What of reality,

What of reality,

Where does it lie?

If not in the shards

Of so many broken truths,

Scattered among

The bits and pieces

Of a collective recollection.

An understanding

Refracted through an imperfect lens,

When even the most subtle variation

Clouds the issue of certainty,

Changes the belief in meaning,

Alters the truly, comforting view,

The rush to judgment,

Twisting and turning

From one moment to the next,

Changing its position

In the heart of your imagination.

At first glance,

Scenes from your window

May look blank and flat,

A linear sky, a predictable array,

Drifting by

To all intent and purpose

Following its own path.

And yet with a second look you see

It to be in a state of constant

Re-arrangement,

Consistently re-defined,

Its construction

Continually affected by

Atmospheric distortion.

Changing by proportion

It creates an enigma,

That is full of variation,

Pregnant with

A promise of impossibility.

By degrees,

Shifting on the wind,

Magnificent castles are

Gradually formed,

Only to be torn down by

An army of giants butterflies

Wielding pitchforks,

And man gods

On dancing horses.

You can be carried

On a journey into the future

Create an escape into

The meander of experience,

The spark of an idea,

That may grow

To fill the palette of your truth,

Colour the landscape

Of your youth.

How easily

The reality of self

Becomes lost in the miasma

Of broken things.

The product of a rainbow

A splintered spectrum

That manipulates meaning.

The creation of life,

As seen through a cracked lens.

When the same,

Distorted view

Is coloured a different hue,

Dependent on the vagaries

Of memory,

And the recollection

Of circumstance.