The transcendental state, realm of the fantastic, beyond all belief,
Metaphysical melancholy, as a last resort, to be as ever fulfilling.
The trip into the distant dominion, satisfies the need, too, for relief.
Ever wearisome, as my thoughts do wander, now to be so thrilling.
Ontology, the philosophical study of the nature of being, researched,
"To be or not to be", could that just be a real question, holding weight?
Might we each be in some fantastic dream, of sorts, often besmirched.
Or does the factual display have the real meaning, a test for all's fate?
The abstract, the abstruse, studying a cosmological theory,
The universal origins and the epistemological in a contrast.
Whether having only guesses, or factual data, or as hearsay,
The truth about the origin of us all, so many like to bombast.
Ancient Rome or of English lore, written with pen upon page,
Recount their own conclusions, so often portrayed upon stage.
Down through the years, as time to fly, more critics are found,
So many ideas, some right or wrong, send all the world in rage.
The fantasy, the imaginary, often take control, remove reality,
Their easier acceptance we adore, our's, a better compatibility.
The true hard facts, often too rough, easier to digest, in a story,
That make believe, often to deceive, revered in every allegory.
We each must decide for ourselves the truth, to be fact or fiction,
Every chance we have in store, expressed in our wits and diction.
Metaphorical, or as pure fact, those words on lines upon the page,
As each child is born on this earth, all to accept, and to so engage.