Shadow Play

Foolish, we dream ourselves perfect;
well-practised in grief
we're attempting to live in a world
where love is time's thief.

Our aims are simply not worth it:
we think we aspire
to greatness, with spirits so small
our perspective's a liar.

Faith? There's just no way to work it -
it leads us astray;
the world's scientifically ordered:
it's useless to pray.

Although our illusion's perverse, it's
so hard to give in.
Our nights are deep dreams of perfection,
our days lived in sin.

David L. Aston