Where the magic is real

 

It must be so sad to go through life

convinced that you know everything,

that your opinion is always right,

that there is no magic, no fairies

just out of sight, no fantasy,

just your view of reality,

no other species in space just trying

to survive, or traveling across the stars in

a shiny silver ride.

Only this day-to-day grind

and a bell that chimes

when time finally

comes to an end.

 

Everything must just drag,

when all that you think,

is all that can be true.

That there are no mysteries alluding you,

that you are the pinnacle of being,

the ultimate moment, no future reveal,

no mystical miracle,

no peeling back the layers and

finding a whole new world beneath,

within which whole new stories begin.

 

Your days must be so shallow,

like a stream in which to paddle

when the whole ocean is just over the next

hill along the path that you travel.

And that brain of which you are so proud

is not being utilised enough to explore

the vast cosmos of thoughts

that can conjure up

something more imaginative

than just the postman at your door.

 

It is quite sad to see people so close minded.

They dare not just let life be,

they need the order and structure

to fit only their belief,

and if it doesn’t then they bend the ears

of anyone that will listen.

Just trying to convince them

to become as empty as they,

and only see the world in grey,

when to me there is

a whole rainbow of colours

and a banquet of exciting tastes,

where the magic is real 

if you just let yourself play

with the thought

that you can’t be right every day