A poem about fiction

In realms where ink bleeds truth untrue,

We meet the fictions, born anew.

With whispered words and painted guise,

They weave a tapestry that lies.

But wait, dear reader, hold your scorn,

For fictions, though not ever born

Of solid fact, yet hold a key

To unlock depths we long to see.

They paint with tales of dragons grand,

Of heroes brave and shifting sand.

They sing of love that conquers all,

And castles tall that heed love's call.

They hold a mirror to our soul,

Reflecting dreams that make us whole.

They let us soar on wings of might,

And dance with shadows in the night.

Through fiction's lens, we glimpse the fight

Of good and evil, dark and light.

We learn of courage, loss, and grace,

And find a solace in this space.

So let us wander, unafraid,

Through crafted worlds, by stories swayed.

For fiction's heart, though built on lies,

Can hold a truth that clarifies.

It whispers tales of what could be,

And sets our spirits wild and free.

So raise a glass to fictions bold,

For in their truths, our dreams unfold.