pratap - work in progress

So It Seems



it’s a beautiful quiet day,




brilliant golden fireball,

breezy wisps of white

against the peaceful blue void,

radiant green trees,

tarmac,

people,




all changing constantly,

discreetly,(discretely?)

as I silently change for them

with each step

I /they take.




They are each many

as I am;




a series of

transient

elusive

images




surreptitiously shifting shape/s

form/s




simultaneously;

gracefully



fitting into

the contours of

theoretical impressions

in my mind.




So graceful,

we would

seemingly seem:(squared):less;

to each other.




Individual

independent

units of existence

existing separately

of each other.




Yet

my II hand

perspective radar- ever searching

seems to

indicate otherwise.




I ask them-

Who are you?




They reply-

Who are they?

What are we?




Do we believe what you see?







Are we real because you (singular) sense?

or

Do you (plural) sense because we are real?







Are your senses real?

What is real?







What is what is?




? is ? ?




? ? ? ?




It’s a beautiful quiet day,

or



so it seems…