Am I Real?

The birth of new found joy
That everything is made of nothing
No physicalism
Infinite gravity, just theory
Cirrus clouds floating
Grey turns to blue
Evil in a life without heroes
Homestead turns to dust
Spontaneous in mind
Chilling of the spine, wretched nerves
Feel to cut, to bleed
Forget a friend of misery
To not be, or ever was.

Ian V. Seymour ©2012

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