Prisms of the Mind
As spring rosebushes sway in their prime,
Some see roses, and some others see thorns.
Can't a bell sound be heard as "peal" and "chime"?
To some, "a bird sings"; to others, "it mourns."
Conscious and unconscious movements of life
seem to form all my fancies and fashions.
Do I see a stream as smooth-flowing strife?
Is existence a firework of passions?
Could comedy and tragedy be well-knit?
Would my outlook see the tale's other side?
Would my inner splits and outer bonds fit?
Could a green leaf be seen as if it were dried?
From thought’s rich soil, a thousand vistas bloom—
Does this same light outlive time's ancient tomb?
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