Why have you not?

In the outskirts of my mind;

A composition
of pragmatism.

Ideal.

O'
what cruelty
the outside
world bears!

Tis'
not equal
to a reflection even.

Naught
but shadows
of this
restless transition.

But,
is he not real?

That corner
you've kept
secretly sacred.

Hath he not
whispered
fine-sounding
words,

resembling
poetries of
the finest feeling?

That garden
of your unconscious
made conscious.

That flame,
into light.

Why then
haven't you
stepped outside,

and let live?