By Tony DeLorger © 2014
What are we, this consciousness,
this persistent mind of thoughts considering,
when all we have is reason, a perception of reality,
when truth could reside so far from our ignorance,
and we, assuming all, construct reality by numbers,
our senses the confirmation of dreams.
We are containers, shells of biology,
within which resides thought, and experience,
each one as deviously imperfect and laden with lies,
where wishes are reality and reality dreams,
the tip of a conspiracy of assumption,
that questions life exists at all.
How complex this existence in all its glory of being,
profound in meaning yet illusive in substance,
and our quest for truth an archaic pursuit,
when all that presents itself is indefinable,
and all that's important is unanswerable,
and we, wallowing in the cauldron of humanity.
So many have professed, concluded,
great minds of learned thought and intellect,
yet what conclusions can an imperfect mind make,
when making conclusions about that very mind,
and all our experience just clutters truth,
biases and conjectures slanted with prejudice.
Which dream then do I live,
which assumption of reality is my chosen path of illusion,
for I know not my own conclusions as true,
just my perspective, and nothing else,
and in the end, what my heart knows,
is that love is all that has value in this dream of life.