My Song

The state of things is relayed to the brain Ascertained from several inputs and compared To what I have become used to being comforted By what I do not see but rather what I know The experience of my awareness to understand That which I know to be a figment of fiction For how I see it is simply a biased pattern From which I make my all consuming deduction To make sense of the random things I feel My pupil dilates when exposed to darkness Open arms to any extra free flying photons Famously what is has been and will be again In the end what you are is who you've been The senses dull to leave one either wise or senile One is left to wonder what it is that so dependably Causes for the notion of sensation to manifest For once stepping out from behind the broken glass The story starts to unfold without you in it You see the buildings and the people in life rafts Dementia would be an ugly thing to call the familiar Peace of music sounding through the self revolving piano Written by means of punched holes in rolled parchment The sound of birds fills the background with ambience Being the pattern within a pattern that turns silence The majestic weaving of a tapestry ends as it begins Closer to what could be paused for eternity in a moment Nameless you can see the object of your affection For else you would remain a part of what you see Sacrificing your determined role for the spot light Yields the reward of being able to save your song As a painting tender like the display of tones in rain Written in the notes of leaves by the season of fall

CuldeSac

What are words without understanding and what is understanding without sense?

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