The little faery flutters to a tree

She lands upon a perfect golden leaf

And falls asleep to dream of what may be

When dank decay contaminates belief.

She knows she is a figment of our minds

Without the spark she ceases to exist.

The faery world depends on humankind

Or vanishes between the beads of mist.

But little does the sleeping human dream

That her existance is no more concrete.

For that which might so solid to her seem

Is formed by faery minds, and hands and feet.

Reality is formed by fantasy.

Believe what you believe not what you see.