In the End, the Solipsist...

One need not distinguish between what is
Thought and what is real. The former is
The latter, no? But thought itself may be
Divided. What one thinks the senses say
May contravene one's heedless will, and,
When this happens, hell breaks loose.
The mind runs howling through its halls,
And hates what streams within its windows,
Curses what it's said is life. If mind is all,
Then how is it that what had seemed to be
Is not, and what was willed is not to be?
At last, the will or senses win, and one's
Poor mind, so overworked, must reconcile
Both of them. The stars spin on within,
Without. The galaxies collapse and die.
The mind, its movements nothing much,
Will squirm, incapable of keeping what
It wants to think is real from what it
Thinks is thought.




Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 61 times
Written on 2015-06-15 at 01:14

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text