From a trilogy on the nature of the human condition and reality.
Is it the movement of hands around a watch or clock,
as the seasons ever pass, the slow weathering of rock,
or the growing grass.
Maybe it only exists when we wake each and every morn,
and at death ceases,do we create it from the day we’re born,
with myriad other pieces.
I wonder if mine is unique or do we all experience the same,
do we make our own path, if so we have ourselves to blame,
and not some deity’s wrath.
If only we could unravel the true nature of our reality,
and open it’s doors wide, we’d lose the fear of man’s mortality,
and eagerly look inside.