The little faery flutters to a tree
She lands upon a perfect golden leaf
And falls asleep to dream of what may be
When dank decay contaminates belief.
She knows she is a figment of our minds
Without the spark she ceases to exist.
The faery world depends on humankind
Or vanishes between the beads of mist.
But little does the sleeping human dream
That her existance is no more concrete.
For that which might so solid to her seem
Is formed by faery minds, and hands and feet.
Reality is formed by fantasy.
Believe what you believe not what you see.
That poem was sort of written as a joke, to show that I can't really write sonnets. However, it fit rather nicely on this page, and seemed somewhat less silly, so I hope you all like it. The "I Believe" campaign, to the best of my knowledge, originated with Faerie Godmother Fiona. Therefore, you should visit her.