I sit and see my dreams in the mind's eye.
I watch as the future unfolds before me.
I view my life, as it could be, as it should be.
A vision of great potential flows through these fingers.
But it is only my imagination.
For when I open my eyes and see this reality,
It is painted, tainted, and stained,
Saturated with the blood of my fallen brethren.
The truth of the real is a lie.
This desert is scorched and dry.
The reality of existence is false.
And I am what I cannot be.
I loathe for what I cannot have.
Hope is a fairytale, a lie we tell children.
A lullaby to cast the spell of sleep,
So that they may share in the delusion.
Faith is for the weak minded,
The fearful who cannot accept truth,
Or too lazy to find it.
Like the false prophets before me,
I am the holy trinity...
The father, the son, and the migrant worker.
I close my eyes again and focus,
See the world as it should be, as I make it.
My vivid psyche captures all the colors,
And the universe becomes visceral.
But that is the escape, the falsehood I weave.
The lie I traded for a name.
Spun into others who share my pain.
Deception is the devil's realm,
And these idle hands are his playthings.
For I sold my soul for a masterpiece,
My name to be immortalized in history.
But I forgot to read the fine print,
And so it, with me, shall burn eternally.