I have sewn a golden field of illusions
in the fertile black soil of ignorance.
Under a warm sun of desire,
watered by rains of false promises,
it has ripened and grown ready for harvest.
Gathered and bound in sheaves of delusion,
it is sent to rumor\'s market,
where it is milled between the stones of imagination.
Now undetectable from other flour,
it is sold to the masses
who mix it with the yeast of hope
It raises, then falls,
leaving life\'s bread
poisonous and bitter to the taste.