Reality

[Something I wrote when I was around 14. The last time I ever tried writing poetry.]

For all the complications this life provides,

does man really understand the reality.

Does there exist invisible to our eye,

a truth behind the burden.

Do we understand the significance,

of each passing thought.

Do we fathom our feelings,

to reach a new level, another step,

towards a light which continues to be,

just out of reach.

Do we question why,

each move is made.

Does a person complicate a monotony,

does he try to make life,

an open field for peace or war,

or a wall which needs,

to be broken down.

As we lay on a platform,

do we face life,

as friend or foe.

As the mind, a sea of inequality,

as an exploitation of the will,

another dimension behind the curtain,

resembles the indirect force,

of a level being.

As an island, luscious or bare,

does thought provide an openness,

or fairness of discharge.

The thinkable surely lies,

on a parallel with a base of understanding.

As a life broken by strands,

of a complascent nature.

Reality