Perhaps we've got it worked out wrong;
our blinding eyes and deaf'ning ears,
distractions from the primal song,
as mortals ponder what appears,
what senses gather, and adheres
to what's been said and penned and read;
those squeaks of mankind's rusting gears,
so sure to seize in slamming dread
when steady time turns back and sneers.  

This mind that sparks inside my head
is fueled by maybes, faith, and doubt.
I pass the time, have known the dead,
and question what it's all about.
Do gods write poems to my life,
their rhymes of joy, refrains of strife...
or's all a ball of chaos thread
that whips around, it's nooses rife...
Perhaps the clues have been misread.

Perhaps those questions buff the mirror,
make sense of all this sensual,
and give a sense of drawing near
the answer, so eventual,
so sure to comfort, like a friend,
so sure to hold me and defend
the tower of this vanity,
where views stretch wide and all's made clear
to stardust claiming sanity.

I ask you, reader - where's the soul?
Is mine a parcel or the whole,
or something fresh, beloved and true...
Does what's in me touch what's in you?

Perhaps my thought's a'twist in rhyme.
Perhaps my soul's the passing time.