for all the knowing and the learing,
for all the seeing and the touching,
for all the existing that we're doing,
what is real and what is thought?
every vision that we're seeing,
every texture that we're feeling,
all the good things that we're feeling,
all the bad;
our minds exceed reality,
thoughts that lead us
earth and fire,
what of love and what of hate?
personality an echo of the things around us,
things we think we know and
things we think we see.
every thought again reminding
we're not who we want to be.
what of falling, what of pain?
do we wrap ourselves around
ideas of a reality that make us settle in,
become complacent with ourselves,
lazy with ourselves,
tired of ourselves,
bored among ourselves?
the simple flow of sand in glass
our hearts we brush away,
the truth is tucked away,
deep recesses where we will not think.
and thus its passing strange,
we spend our days in shiny rain,
a mystifying shrouding mist,
to hide our hearts and hide our selves,
and slip into rebellious sleep,
and rise and sleep and drink and eat
each day driving less towards home,
each day a little more alone,
left with our thoughts and
the reality we'd expect to see,
on any day,
or any day.
and so the years do pass us by