Sunday, March 22, 2015


            I read and would believe that mind survives
            The death of bodies destined for the grave,
            That something deeply mystical contrives
            To elude the horror of that dark enclave.

            Mind is what’s real in the deepest sense,
            For matter is but thought made manifest
            As palpable, illusory evidence
            Of what one would not otherwise attest.

            But still reality, as Plato knew,
            Is not materiality but form,
            Not wispy figments in perceptual view;
            Instead, some constant, underlying norm.

                 And yet this reasoning is too abstract,
                 For nothing’s more consoling than plain fact.