Subjective

The gray, transparent projection

Of the tree shades hazily

Across the rooftop,

Product of the sun behind it,

Unreal because trees don't grow on roofs

Nor do they appear and

Disappear with the sun.

Somewhere between the actual tree

And the version of itself

Lies the truth

So if you stand between the two,

Because the tree shields you from the sun

And there is no shadow of you,
You are real there in the interplay

Cast into being by

Your relativity.