Being a hopeless romantic does not
mean I am constantly disappointed
at unmet expectations; the course of
true love never did run smooth.
Seeing the extraordinary in the mundane,
does not mean we are blind to
but freed from those who are stuck
in the shades of grey.
We see spectrums of unseen;
truths in trees, birds, and stones;
recieve foresight in lakes, sky,
and mirrors, and reflect in them
to understand what others pass
off as common.
One wild-haired visionary
told us two ways to look at life:
either everything is a miracle,
or nothing is.
I keep thinking about philosophy,
how we logically view miracles
as things that are impossible, but
happen; if repeated, they are not
Utilitarian or not,
I wonder if apostles saw the
acts of Christ, performed for them
at a rate I’ve not witnessed, myself,
as miracles each time.
Do we deaden our sights because
something becomes familiar,
or revel every time that beauty
enters our scope?
I am all three of Theseus’s musings,
treated like a fool to those who
Where they see nothing,
I see what could be.