For what can we hold as our own
but our secrets.
A refuge,
protected by the endless bounds
in labyrinths of corticocircuitry.
An inmasterable code of sporadic impulses delivering refuge
of an imaginable world.

To leap
synapse to synapse
in an abstract journey through the depths of our being.

Our darkest fears,
Our brightest desires
running and clawing their ways into the most superficial layers of conscious thought.

For what do we have
when light exposes the demons
whom linger
and realism paints over the beautiful picture of dreams.

What do we have but variables
in the most insignificant equation of our existence.

And then,
even then,
the beauty of the equation
would be painted
in grey.