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There is nothing
real except the recognition
that real is what we feel
and not what we think
because to follow a thought, even our own,
is to follow a ghost
and yet most
of us cling
to this thing,
this idea of what would be
and how we,
you and me,
would see
things differently
at a future date
in a place
where laughter must rule,
work is for the fool,
and tragedy a tool
in someone else’s tool box,
and we would dream
and row our boats,
merrily,
down a stream
to moments
that contain unbridled joy
and song,
heroes
and suns
that never set
if only we could let
ourselves
embrace
the certainty
of absolute truth
and the reality
that humanity
understands
grand plans
and the speed of light,
the mysteries of death
and the dark night
of the soul
within the body
of life
that holds us
as we breathe
and one day die
in the desert
that is space,
a place
without time
within which we chase
ourselves down dark alleys
past pubs and salons
where we offer comfort
to ourselves and one another
because there is no stream,
no dream
or cream
that can erase
the wrinkles of time
that wrap themselves
around our face,
creating space
for tears to hide
outside
as we age
inside the cage,
and yet if we look to see,
and not just to exist,
we can choose to explore
what it means to be or not to be
and resist
the urge
to explain to others
what things mean
and how to experience the mystery
and the tragedy
that is life,
because what we think is real
is merely a thought
that got caught,
and so we if can let that idea go
and step back from what we think we know,
we create more choices,
more spaces,
more voices
in the bittersweet symphony
of life
on a sphere
in a galaxy
too far
and too near,
so enigmatic
and dear,
neither there nor here,
spinning within
and without
year after year
until we are
dust in the wind
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