Consciousness

That star stripped sky under which
I wander, bled flowers into the ears
of poets and songs into the eyes of
painters. That will of the whisp, a
cat of Schroedinger, where we can-
not confound that simple principle,
that enigmatic “I,” so evoked as if
we could know it, or me, or this, or
that. As if stars are not just ideas
we named, and flowers and colors
some crumpled paper, the very same.

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