There was a time when we saw things as they are, nothing more or less,
Like my cup of tea, and our pouring milk, and your orbs of abyss,
But sight is nothing but a tool, it is sense that we sought,
So we tried to write a story out of the leaves and icicles, flowers and fire,
We gained visions and thought that this path is ours,
Knowledge was a cheap thrill, and comprehension was our drill
In sculpting the hard piece of mind we hated and despised,
Because
We were too proud and thought that we could play
As god in our own tale.
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My imaginary f(r)iend is a black paper crane.
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