We don’t meet

We do not see new  people as they are
We clothe them in the dress of people past
Freud  gave names to  this and more bizarre
We still  do not see  people as they are
But “recognise”   in them  who we   look for
Reality   will  have them soon declassed
We do not see new  people as they are
We  embed in them  the love of people past.

This love unreal will soon give way to hate
They ought to be whom we wish them to be.
Then down on them, we bring the hand of fate
This love unreal will soon give way to hate
We do not even think it’s our mistake
Nor that from our desires they   should be    free
All  love unreal will  then become  our fate
They ought to  be our   longed for  fantasy.