This question that I must ask of my consciousness,
Wide awake and with focus upon humankind,
May be moot to most others who would call insane
Anyone who would ask it. Within their disdain
Is the key to the answer. Relief may I find
In engaging my asking, but not to excess.
People never are as I perceive them to be.
Each of us wants to mold into specific shape
What we know through the senses. So, reality
Is just how I perceive it. And this I do see
As a fact most confounding. Is there an escape
From the pit of inscrutable uncertainty?
When connected to spirit, I see through the eyes
Of the source of all of us. The realer they are
They may rise to the image I see as their best.
They’re as real as I make them. This begs to suggest
That the eye that beholds others is just as far
From the truth, as imagined. My, what a surprise!
Chains of Pain are created through my observing
What I don’t care to look at, then adding to it
Some more doubt and confusion plus firm evidence
Of a flaw in the fabric of my existence.
The eye of the beholder sees what it sees fit
To be worthy and justified in its being.