(Philosophy/Poem) Is It Real

Is It Real

 

In one’s imagination forms of life do appear or fade

Yet unknown to all but the Author who owns the Pen

Whether forms be beautiful like a rainbow in the sky

Or be daunting like the black clouds of a spring storm

 

 

Does the Earth really contain any human habitation

Or, is our lives just the imagination of the Great Poet

Is it possible that we are but toys in a Celestial dream

Is our world but the swipe of a brush on a master canvas

Can we paint the sun into the clouds of a dark rain day

 

 

Can any of us lift the dirt from a cold, cold grave

O Poet, be bright in the scenes that you write

For we know not if tonight our soul will be erased

Leaving behind only the vapor we thought we lived

Did you and I only live in the tip of the Great Poets pen

 

What Does Silence Sound Like

 

When you hear Silence, are you fast asleep?

 

What does silence sound like too you? Silence to me is hearing a constant high pitch sound of  electric voltage wire humming throughout my darkness. When you lay your head down to sleep what do you hear? Can you hear total silence? I can at times accomplish the blackness of nothingness in my minds eyes when I have lain down to sleep. I think that if we can accomplish this void in our slumber then we should be able to reach good REM sleep, the trouble is getting there.

 

Science tells us all that the brain never sleeps, they surmise (and I do agree) if the brain is not emitting connectors like when we are dreaming, then we are dead. This I would think would be the ultimate silence, death, but is it? The Judgement continues as we sleep, the Trumpet, then our destiny to face.

 

Remember what I asked you in this title (What Does Silence Sound Like)? For those of us who have the problem of Tinnitus, it seems that we have no such thing as true silence.

So-This Is Life

When I find myself in disfavor of riches and women’s smiles

I find myself alone cursing and weeping from this darkened state

My pain, my pain, why doth Heaven hide from my tear filled eyes

When looking upon my life, I curse the bloody things I’ve done

Wanting myself to be like those who never worked, yet lined with gold

Shinning like them with toes in the sand and like Tarzan beating their breasts

Why do we humans yearn this friends looks and that one’s fame

If all wishes granted, what would I enjoy the most, and what the least

When in such thoughts I find it is myself the most that I despise

Hopefully Lord I pray to Thee, rescue me Lord, for truly I hate this life

Have I spent my years like a predator, with no guarantee of next sun rising

From breathing air, to the cold grave, now hearing hymns at Heavens Gate

From this state I have lived in, Lord do I really wish to see Thy Holy Face

But then I awake and I do see the beauty of the morning sun rising

Aw but a dream, but wait, my boots to my beard, they are thoroughly singed!

(Philosophy/Poem) Is It Real

Is It Real

 

In one’s imagination forms of life do appear or fade

Yet unknown to all but the Author who owns the Pen

Whether forms be beautiful like a rainbow in the sky

Or be daunting like the black clouds of a spring storm

 

 

Does the Earth really contain any human habitation

Or, is our lives just the imagination of the Great Poet

Is it possible that we are but toys in a Celestial dream

Is our world but the swipe of a brush on a master canvas

Can we paint the sun into the clouds of a dark rain day

 

 

Can any of us lift the dirt from a cold, cold grave

O Poet, be bright in the scenes that you write

For we know not if tonight our soul will be erased

Leaving behind only the vapor we thought we lived

Did you and I only live in the tip of the Great Poets pen