Between the rock and the hard place lies my conception of reality
Struggle, I do, to define my minds certainty
Biased only upon my own memories
And what comfort should it bring me that you are under the same delusion
I can see some now but alas can I trust my eyes any more than my mind
And if so what are we to say for the moonbeams whose only trace is their effects
Much like winds which only stir the other objects we deem tangible
What can be said for all that space in which I invent
Or perhaps it is all in my mind
And who is too say my mind is not all that is real
Peace, I beg for I could doubt all
In endless circles I wander. . .