It was a cat,
a box, and a simple clockwork device,
that taught mankind that seeing
was believing.
It was a tree,
all leaves and branches, reaching for the sky and all that lies below,
and it’s soundless final cries
that taught man that knowing
was believing.

Yet when I close my eyes,
clear my mind, I no longer
see, nor know.

Is it that I have ceased to exist?

Or is it that I have chosen to believe
in a different life,
another world,
a separate way of being?

Such are the thoughts
floating through the Mobius of my mind
while lying in twilight,
existing betwixt life
and the surreal shades of green that span beyond.

It is only when I spread wings of
clockwork,
ashes,
glass,
and paint a burning sky with teardrop stars, that I can turn
and face a crimson sunset
igniting its dying licks of fire not for me,
but other, brighter angels,
that I can accept that
among the living, with which I sometimes consider myself,
neither sight,
nor knowledge,
has ever ignited a spark, and it is
dreaming
that is
believing