What is seeing, in a meaning?
What if believing, is seeing?
What if a third eye is opened but just as quickly sewn shut
By the needles and thread of other worn hands?
Why do we close possibilities as easily as sliding doors?
Sound-proofing the rooms in our minds
Why do we find comfort in numbers and reason
In the chaotic wind of a million breaths?
What is boundary in infinity?
What would be the string that holds
You, to me, to there, to that, to eyes, to skin, to stars, to waves, to whales, to clouds, to breeze, to emotion?
An intricate grid, the flower of life
Of everything
And everyone, just looking for some delusion to hold on to
If feeling is believing
And feeling is my illusion of seeing
Then I believe
And that is all that matters.