People have a firm grasp (And it’s good that they do)
Of the terms of existence that can’t be explained.
We go on believing the lives we construct
Have some meaning. If not, then we fear we are fucked.
Though we search well to find it, oft times we are drained
Of our vast psychic energy. Then we are blue.
But most do have other folks with whom to share
The myriad moment most seemingly real
To each as the other, and all who agree
That all that is real includes all one can see.
Yet the most assured things are the feelings we feel
And the blessings received from our ‘bowl mates’ who care.
I must know that I’m real and not need you at all
For verification of what’s clear to me.
And if I were to say you’re not real as I am
Then you might well conclude I were part of a scam
To get you to otherwise set yourself free
Of the pondering play that could be our downfall.