The Real You.

It doesn't take two
to imitate doves
chasing each other
in thick clouds
and olive trees.

I can dream myself
into delusion's depression-
without your hand
growing though my soul.

Yet you get me
to know myself-
more than what
I tell,
by swallowing lies
I breathe air
that seems filled
with sparks.

You've shown that
rivers of fantasy
don't need human
hearts to dive
and sink beneath.

Drowning ourselves
only lets depth
be our critic,
sometimes we are shallow,
reflective in low lights,
but we soar over time.

Over encouragement,
we find real pieces
that mirror our motives,
not just our pre-recorded
gestures of similes.