I explored the
depths of hell, and
found it wanting,
wandering the streets,
looking for a utopia.
Not all that shines is
the sun.
Pictures can be
doctored, and when the
layers are peeled away
the purple horizon isn't
royal.
It's a ghastly negative,
with black and white
images that lack
love and depth.

All the potions are placebos.
It's temporary and tiring.
When I grew up,
I stopped playing with
toys, they break and
disappoint, and worse yet,
they leave me empty and hungry.

The sky-pilot found me
and I am full,
belly and soul.
Besides still waters,
green is my bed.