Is this a poem?
Is it a statement of truth? Or Truth?
It is very real; but only words,
marks on a virtual slate.
Where is reality?
Is eternity a creature we can cage and observe?
Why are some stories we tell ourselves
“real” and others fantasy or even lies?
Is magick real; is it a valid, authentic,
verifiable way of acceptance?
Can we observe as on a parallel road,
seeing the deadening horror of a whole
stream of accreted experience,
a passing train on a derailing track?
Could we devise more transcendent
transportation, meander along a shining,
winding path of beauty and serene
How differentiate those driven mad from
Which is stress relieving rationale;
which is real?
Philosophy is defined as the love of truth.
But is it only truth because
we love it into being?
Can we create our own ideal truths,
our own idyllic life streams,
reality that most ecstatically resonates with
our truest desires, by simply (or not so simply)
loving such fruition into being?
What are we to make of that other
structure, the one that sucks?
Has it been loved into being as well?
Can we safely leave that world to those
who demand it,
wonder off their path onto our own?