Everything is beautiful from far away,
and promises are easily made.
Everything mountain seems climbable until I walk up to it,
Then the scarcity of handholds bars my way.
Why is the grass always greener and the air always sweeter
in the fictional plains of my mind?
When will I land in a verdant valley that stays as fresh up close as far away?
Every rose has thorns and forests are full of dirt, pine needles, and sap-
every adventure feels frightening, uncomfortable, threatening,
and there's rarely time for a nap.
And the irony is, as soon as its gone,
the memories become rosy and grand-
and I wax sentimental and feel nostalgic for that verdant valley in my mind.