Fictions of Being

What an illusion,
Of such collusion.

Conspired of many.
Creators aplenty.

Decipher what’s real.
Can it be revealed?

When standing upon,
All that has been drawn.

From only a thought.
Exists here but naught.

It came from a story.
Certain allegory.

Perpetuate myth.
The race then went with.

Imagined much more.
What might be in store.

When standing within.
Entangled therein.

But stepping outside.
Now, I am beside.

How little is real.
Entranced with ideals.

Some fates then are sealed,
And worlds one can steal.

By tales that are gripping.
Our freedoms go slipping.

Story’s the feature,
Of complex creatures.

Get back to the base.
The start of the race.

Beneath all around.
But can it be found?

For then if it will,
Some truth can distill.

Separate from fiction.
Explain this affliction.

The stories that last.
Show not of our past.

But where we are now.
Truth as we allow.

But just for a time,
As history will rhyme.

For once it’s been charted,
More tales have been started.

That charted depiction,
Is also a fiction.