The Eye's Delusion

 

The Eye, that clever little voyeur, squinted hard,

Scanning the countryside like it owned the darn place,

Mumbling about a glorious mountain where none existed—

Engulfed in blue mist, merely the perfume of its own ambition.

 

The Ear, tired of listening to Eye's endless romance,

Snapped, "Quiet! I've had quite enough of your misty visions."

For it knows silence is golden, and gold is the mountain it seeks.

 

The Hand swished through the drama,

Like a hungry ghost looking for a meatloaf sandwich—

No towering peaks to grasp, not even a lousy hill or a knoll!

 

The Nose, always after the scoop,

Snorted, sniffed, and snuffed out the bold lie,

No Alpine flowers to savor, not even the faintest hint of pine.

 

The Eye, betrayed by its sweet illusion,

Cast its optic nerve to the heavens,

Murmuring betrayal, while the others,

Oh, those skeptics, huddled in conspiracy,

Their whispers prickling the void,

Decreed a sentence harsh and swift:

"There's a crack in our Eyeball," they cried,

"He sees what we cannot, and that is simply not tolerable."

 

And so the Eye wept, all watery and blurred,

For who would ever trust a visionary

In a world of doubters with sturdy feet

Planted firmly in the flatlands of certainty?