Was the illusory flower the deflowering of freedom?: A poem 

I asked myself  

when I hurt my thumb 

before I touched the rose:  

Am I safer then? 

Blood and sweat could be in vain 

Is a figment of fantasy a sin? 

Where does sin begin? 

In the realisation that you are simplicity’s drought? 

In the endeavour to take you out? 

Is fiction, the key to progress, a crime? 

Is this murder of reality far worse than the progressed reality? 

Could even God cease to be his Godliness 

when His imagination became His creation? 

Could the manifestation be a disappointment, a disillusion? 

Do you realise there are no breaks to progress 

but a catastrophe of innocence?  

There could be no greater accident of humanity than invention! 

We can only gain real wisdom 

when the clock strikes twelve? 

Eating from the tree of knowledge 

may have destroyed Paradise 

When all the convenience we thought they were 

only made us their slaves