Illusions dance before our eyes
for we see how we think to see,
soliciting our growing fantasy.
What appears to be to what is
becomes lost in amateur's translation.

A chameleon's shade cloaks green
when a predator's eye is on the prowl.
Shaped to our reality, we adapt to breathe,
we see what we need to see,
to continue growing our fantasy.

And at its peak,
The act is bought! The drama continues
and the script is dutifully rehearsed,
fooling even myself to think
That I could be Hamlet,
the coward prince,
and her my Ophelia but breathing,
from the words I am reading,
printed on a blank sheet of paper in
Times New Roman, font twelve.