The Book of Truth: Verse I
By Neurosine
A sense of reality's not always what it's cracked up to be. It loses the race to the sensation of realization, When we feel what till now only seemed. Notions turn into emotions, The world breaths, alive, that's the moment we really jive. Mark the rest up as preparation, Then step inside for the ride. It doesn't matter if we all have to die, That's not really real anyhow. Were just plasma, some jelly, and lies. Death is a limited explanation, And like all definitions, invitations to pose some more questions little imaginations, pointing us relentlessly to their personal version of why, which later they’re prepared to deny. Like a suit, while it fits, it’s all right. A Chain Linked Maze of meager perception. The truth really is, That: this is a lie. A complicated way to find, That which isn't hiding beneath or behind, Nor above, But around, And within, All our skins, This one thing. No beginning or end, Energy oscillating to create “solid” matter and with us stuck within. Trying to wrap our minds around it, Hour after hour When the inadequate entities clasp their mouths to enclose it, There is nothing there to devour. Written February 7th, 2002 © on Feb 07 2002 10:01 AM PST, Neurosine 0 • 10
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"A sense of reality's not always what it's cracked up to be...."