The Imaginary

I wish for the ability to see Through eyes of passion, Looking inward Where it can be as warm and fragrant As spring in daylight, When the air is heavy And the birds share secrets Not meant for me to know. And it can be as desolate As the city's midnight sky When the clouds seem to sink into Heaven's underground. How beautiful is this? Granting me the pleasure of the imaginary. But still I can't keep from wondering... How beautiful is poetry When words are pebbles in your shoes? How beautiful is peace When it slips your grasp like the stream's fish? The answer lies in how we allow our eyes to see, Whether it be our mind, heart or soul. The hard part is knowing the difference.