Sta.sh
Within the confines of our minds
We are gods.
Able to build up and wipe out
At mere will.
We can bring landscapes into being,
Lush and green,
Blue, whatever we wish. Mountains
With peaks unseen
Among clouds. All preceded by
A blue lake.
Or we can form a hellish city;
Buildings mangled
And ripped apart all in a haze of red sand.
Housing not
One human, but something most foul
And feral.
Cities, worlds, universes, dimensions all
Within the reach
Of our creativity.
Or we can forget all logic, physics,
Whatever limits
Placed in what we call reality
And create
Something truly bizarre,
Fantastic.
Creatures and beasts unknown to man
And magic abound.
Worlds, discworlds and worlds within worlds!
Tolkien, Pratchett and Rowling know the way
As do all authors, poets, painters
And other miscellaneous masters of art.
Or you can leave the canvas blank.
Imagine not, as you immerse yourself wholly
In this mundane life.
This god calls such a waste.
But it makes one wonder:
Are we but the incredibly detailed
Musings of a great artist?
Like lead markings on paper, easily revocable
according to his will?
And such a cruel sense of humor he has...
Think not too much of it.
Just remember that all the world is a stage;
Take part and act out the story that was written
Just for you
And marvel at the ending.
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O.o you wrote a poem... *fabric of reality is being torn*
