What is real?
What is not?
Could you even tell?
After all what's real to you could not be to me,
And it's difficult to see how any of this could be.
Look around you and see,
But not with your eyes,
Use your mind and see.
See how Time flows and moves.
Like string through pearls,
it's heavy and physical.
And yet,
mysterious.
Stop.
And listen to the movement of energy,
The buzz of lights,
The heat of the sun,
Listen with your mind and notice,
You are a construct of space dust,
Of fallen stars
Full of their energy,
It moves through you like koi in a pond.
Pause.
Feel the world around you,
The ground under you,
The walls that surround you.
They feel sturdy,
Reality makes sense,
Like a picket fence,
Symmetrical and organized.
Yet
Reality is,
Spastic.
Messy.
Disfigured.
Like a hunchback ringing the church bells,
You can only hear the beauty of those bells,
But fail to notice the ugly cause.
Your world, is beauty and color,
But what is the cause?
War? Death? Destruction?
But none of these matter in your world.
Because it's YOUR world,
Other lives, sad lives, real lives
They are the ugly,
That you cannot see.
That you cannot hear.
That you cannot feel.
But your existence goes on, listening to those magic church bells.
The sound,
The lights,
The distractions.
They boom and enchant,
Drowning out the Universe,
Clouding your vision and making you blind.
That is real.
That is true.
What is it to you?
The ugly?
The beauty?
Could you even tell
What is Real?