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What is this life…reality?
Why do I question it relentlessly so?
So many moments seemingly meaningless
Meandering through this meaningful sentience,
Chronology…
Continuity…
Spirituality…
But reality, Oxford will tell you:
Property of being real, resemblance to Origional.
Accountable, in my opinion, only through dissemblance.
What I ask, is original?
It’s all rather subliminal
Made up by man and his idea of ideal.
Be like budda, be like a tree,
Pray to Gods, pray for money..
This will make you healthy, that will make you ill
Where is the free will in all this obscurity?
What is this substance we call reality?
I beg your pardon, sir and madam,
Excuse my blaspheme if religion is your reality,
But goddamn, sir and madam
It’s outrageous and random,
The idea…
The ideal…
Any idea for that matter
For what is made of blaspheme?
Speaking irreverently of sacred things.
What is not sacred down to a grain of sand?
If all by the hand and will of God,
Or aliens..
Or angels…
Or spark of light,
Let us not in the slight, pretend
To know or name a single thing.
Sacred cannot be named,
Or unnamed…
Or disclaimed…
And yet it is, and so is the tangibility of life.
May we all feel deeply, sir and madam
Again I say: Goddamn!
For this…
Obscurity…
A tangible reality.

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