Off in the distance on these grassy fields,
searching for a truth among cardboard cutouts and mirages of perfection.
Bugs crawl, playing with the hair on my legs,
the truest feeling about this day.
Watching for movements and stories told.
Stories and lies, heard them all before.
A days projection is merely exaggeration. Can one tell hopefulness from pure imagination.
Taken out of context it may all be true.
When put into perspective, your friends are the ones you’d save.
Across the valley and through the flames, the words expelled are children’s tales.
What ends up of the words you tell?
Do they go into the abyss when no one listens?
Do they stay in your thoughts when no one asks?
Do they manufacture disbelief under your own pen?
Words matter when they state the truth,
even if no one believes, not me or you.
When searching for movement in a far off land,
Remember that motions lie,
Remember that paper is the earth and God is the pen.
We must learn to love despite the lies,
off in the distance people go on with their lives.
Feel the sun beat down on pasty white skin,
grass itches every moment, while across the field
the truth is expressed from what they are told.
Lessons are given while some grow old.
No one may listen, the day will die,
but the book is always open and the pen always writes.