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Poem

One exterior and another,
If they are on the same shape,
Have breadth between them,
Skin to skin,
We are measured for,
It cannot go much far,
Say we are about a foot or less on a scale bar,
Skin has a layer underneath,
And body parts, muscles, vessels, veins and bones,
Lie there still more beneath,
All exteriors envelope us on all sides,
We are three dimensional,
And can be measured in cubics besides,
Is it all we have of ourselves?
Or there is more,
Can I feel my lung work?
Or heart beat,
Or my stomachs churn,
Perhaps I can feel some parts,
And perhaps not most,
But the factory works on and on,
The physical interior is thus known true and well,
But do we know the depth of the “real well”,
Mind states run in billions,
Sitting here I can be away a million miles,
Atop the highest mountain peak,
In the densest of jungles,
And wading in deepest of rivers,
I can think of abstract plane,
Perhaps as much as I do on physical plane,
Mind makes the cubics inadequate,
As it runs the physical factory,
It stimulates the vital one,
Its states interact with vital force,
Kept in concentrated form,
Interiors run into billions,
And most of them are blessed,
With interaction with the vital,
The day it escapes and rarifies,
Your three dimensions collapse into dust.

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