Unclear Failure

Why is it,
alone,
surrounded,
so impossible to see
or hear
the spray of the summer breeze,
the beauty of a warm green leaf,
falling from the purple sky
when crystals and diamonds float
where you lie?
Are we so blind
to be past perception
of surreal?
To be past conception
of invisible fears?
But those who look forward,
Those who are unclear,
they see only what's missing
and never the beauty of near.
Can the two not combine?
Can they not feel
the comfortable humid
the animating cold?
A pretender might try.
An imposter could lie,
but his vessels would fill,
and his nerves would run thin.
His thoughts would turn empty
because
A pretender would die.