Migration of Imagination.
So gather we all seem to be.
As solid as a great redwood tree.
Easily seen, perfectly preen.
Like the lush kept ground-keepers grass.
A lean in our augmented reality.
The gravity unknown in egos' flight.
Something sits not quite right:
A blight I say which colors our sight.
To me, incomprehensible, the dribbling babble.
As cattle, any intelligent being would conclude.
Alluded to this truth I may be viewed abrasive, maybe even uncouth.
These dimensions of self-reflection push me forward in life's competition.
My volition is your violation.
Put your eyes on probation and a strange sensation will then overcome.
To some, that marks a transition away from prohibition.
It is of my opinion that we art as more minion than human.
If we were to lift the clouded filter from our eyes, and truly
behold the beauty of the skies,
we would step away from the comfortably conforma
tive shade of sheep.
Wipe the sleep crusts from our
overburdened lids, and walk out from the place we once hid.