“What is life?”, he asked me
And stunned me right there.
For I became a victim,
To this incredible affair.
But it set me pondering,
Unable to sleep anymore,
For there had to be an answer,
To this question, for sure.
That answer I did find,
Ironic as it may seem,
Although I was bereft of sleep,
Life is just a dream.
That is what it said, in
The book by Richard Bach,
And I seemed to believe it,
For, questions I did lack.
But, what did this mean to me?
That is what I sought.
This vast world have I created then,
With my incredible thought.
The white moon did I choose,
And everything that I “see”,
All of this “world”, and every face,
I am my God to me.
And there must be a million worlds,
A million minds at work,
Each one drawing its own lines,
With thoughts that run berserk.
And in this world did I choose,
For me to write this down,
As I imagined for you to read,
And maybe to astound.
