REALITY

Do you ever talk to a machine,
listen to a made-up voice?
To answer; you’d like to scream;
for you’re only given a choice.

For that machine hasn’t a mind;
it doesn’t know what you’ve said;
tho it acts friendly; it’s not kind;

We all have set sail on the ocean of thought;
dreaming of reaching an enchanted place;
a dream world embodying all that ought;
and yet, pure thought, requiring no space.

Our mind creates an idyllic creation;
thought’s perfection, with no omissions;
a dream world for a perfect vacation;
reality

New roads being paved nearly every day;
as old ones have become obliterated;
landscapes keep changing in every way;
past lifetimes; completely incinerated.

Past meadows; long gone, many times over;
while new buildings replace all the old;
those meadows now filled with the latest clover;
as a new present completely

Most seek to avoid true reality;
it often troubles our mind;
we accept superficiality;
whenever reality’s defined.

Some think that lives are random;
simply falling, like summer rain.
Surely, nobody planned them;
what could they possibly gain?

And, who could such a creator be;
and what is his scope

Often we shout; just to be heard;
but that isn’t, really, how it works;
whispers are better; it seems absurd;
but it’s one of reality’s quirks.

Imagine, shouting at someone you love;
do you think you’ll make an impression?
They might shout back and give a

The soul is dust from God’s energy;
from which, He created the man;
combined with His power of synergy;
Light flashed and creation began.

All energies entombed throughout eternity;
the ultimate powers of God, within;
a womb of creation was God’s maternity;
compelled by His thoughts to begin.

The physical body; a metaphor of mankind;
tho the energy, within, is the soul.
Souls are the ones by which man is defined;
mere appearance; the body’s role.

For the body acts as a caterpillar and caccoon;
while the true heart of the soul, may hide;
though the physical

Times change; but passion goes on;
trashing my pen and my quill;
my typewriter has long since gone;
and my computer desires my will.

Spellcheck is how the demons began;
as though, spelling’s their call;
I wish to finish my thoughts, if I can;
but the computer thinks for