(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

 

(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