Our imagination is the zest of fruit,
the pulpous innards that taste
oh so sweet, and so sour.
In time we swell and retain many years,
we squeeze out the life of our many, many dreams.
In time we learn how to harvest
our imagination for good, and bad.
In time our imagination ripens, and
the generation’s crop comes to pass.
What a unique offering on this earth we plough,
the dirt and stone and layers of metal.
Our imagination is taking us through a phase
of reality, much like a painter painting
a picture of himself painting a picture.