Maybe we were all wrong, believing the lies that spill from our mother's mouth, believing the deceit that fogs our clouded memory, maybe we were always wrong, and no one told us that the sun never sets and always sleeps while the moon remains a projection of our crazed fantasies, forever lighting our sky with false hope Maybe we never came to our own birth, sitting in the corner of heaven waiting for the day of deliverance, but, maybe we never came to our own funeral, death being an inanimate object, resting on a shelf, collecting dust. Maybe our daydreams are windows to reality, that are simply locked in the levels of inescapable dreams, And maybe that's what life will always be– A dream within a dream, that is never fully realized as a figment of conceptual space. What remains remains remains unseen in the eyes of the beholder, Can truth be forced on a believer? Or does it fall between the sidewalk cracks because no one cares to pick it up. Maybe we will always believe what we're told even though truth is plastered on a billboard, the creatures of the night splatter paint against the soft spoken words to hide the way to freedom, for some strange reason. And for some strange reason, we don't scrape the lies from our eyes, even though the truth is evident and sublime. Maybe we will always be lost in translation, swimming for hours to find a Savior of debris, seeking for the depths of unity and despair in a world that cares very little for common sense. And maybe we never will.