Porygon
June 4th, 2004, 07:36 PM
Yes, I know it's not all that good, but I'll post it anyway. It's called The Illusion's Reality.
All around us, everything we see,
All that we smell, touch and say,
All that we are, all we can be,
Every change we make, each brick that we lay,
Where are they? Where are we?
Where is the Reality we so greatly seek?
Will we find it in life? In you or me?
Nay, the Illusions, their influence is at its peak.
The Illusions are what we see,
What we smell, touch and say,
The Illusions control you and me,
So skillfully keeping Reality at bay.
So what are we then? Are we just slaves,
To the Illusions, which warp our perceptions?
From them, is it possible to be saved?
From their influence, are there any exceptions?
How deep do the Illusions extend?
Is it real air that we breathe?
Is it real fabric that we mend?
Is it real dust that causes us to sneeze?
How do we know Reality isn’t the Matrix,
Where our whole life is just an Illusion,
And we’re just batteries? What awful tricks.
Tricks that are played behind a mask of Illusion.
We live in the Illusions’ world,
We cannot tell the difference,
Between the Illusions and the real world,
With Reality’s death; Illusions reigning ever since.
Coming to a close, the poem to an end,
Is there anything to break my fall?
Left alone, for myself I must fend.
But really, have I ever written this poem at all?
All around us, everything we see,
All that we smell, touch and say,
All that we are, all we can be,
Every change we make, each brick that we lay,
Where are they? Where are we?
Where is the Reality we so greatly seek?
Will we find it in life? In you or me?
Nay, the Illusions, their influence is at its peak.
The Illusions are what we see,
What we smell, touch and say,
The Illusions control you and me,
So skillfully keeping Reality at bay.
So what are we then? Are we just slaves,
To the Illusions, which warp our perceptions?
From them, is it possible to be saved?
From their influence, are there any exceptions?
How deep do the Illusions extend?
Is it real air that we breathe?
Is it real fabric that we mend?
Is it real dust that causes us to sneeze?
How do we know Reality isn’t the Matrix,
Where our whole life is just an Illusion,
And we’re just batteries? What awful tricks.
Tricks that are played behind a mask of Illusion.
We live in the Illusions’ world,
We cannot tell the difference,
Between the Illusions and the real world,
With Reality’s death; Illusions reigning ever since.
Coming to a close, the poem to an end,
Is there anything to break my fall?
Left alone, for myself I must fend.
But really, have I ever written this poem at all?