Perception alone can annihilate, as we know, a world
— Boredom turns forms into tropes —
As one knows everything at birth
And falls into the long forgetting ...
Pretending the barbed wire glitters
And the tumbleweeds are green.
That's that tiny thing, the outside world,
That never really offers truthful hues,
And there's always this rush to make it all seem right
As if we couldn't bear the thought of us
Without our senses shackled
— Oh, but for some, they slip away
Like a vision of a lover to the clouds,
And the only relation is what one can make of it,
Whatever spells dissolving chimeras can cast
To see that thing you'd heard about,
To not hear what you were not given to see
— It's a cold, unblinking window
As you sit beside your hearth
And hear the whispers of the fire
Until you're strong enough within yourself
To look there.
