Lot

We look to find
the something real, in kind
it runs away
from our desperate
chasing mind.
We replace it instead
with somethingΒ
we used to dread
living a dream
meant only for
the walking dead.
We live this dream
painting our skies
like an artist rendering
delicious lies.
In doing so we miss
the reality that exists
beyond our impatient eyes.

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Comments
excellent poetry linda