Ron Harry Pecson Viterbo

In the brink of oblivion,
No one dared to see
What lies amidst every line,
No one dared to hear
Every boundless echo,
No one dared to feel
Even the slightest twitch of fantasy
That the imperfect ones dared to believe.

It's time.
The feathers had been preened
And dried, ready for take-off.
It's time
The reality and fantasy entwine
It's time
That the name shall exist
In both realms.