Passing Strangers

Is life real, or just a dream?
In a room full of passing strangers,
Whose ghostly shadows deck the walls,
Ladies wooed by chivalric warriors,
I'm spun around inside their waltz,
Revolving in circles,
I sometimes wonder who I am,
Am I the product of some miracle,
Or the mere ghostly whisper of a name?

It seems my life is ephemeral,
As I drift through notions and ideas,
My muses wander from the spiritual,
To the physical plain that holds me here,
I see phantoms holding converse,
And I vaguely understand,
That the barriers that they traverse,
Cannot be crossed by man.

And in the misty realm of pipe dreams,
Do thoughts really exist at all?
Someone said, "I think, therefore I am!"
But can he claim proof for his call?
Perhaps in death I'll find the truth,
For one day death must surely come,
Then I shall see through life's ruse,
Should termination take me home.

So in this room of passing strangers,
Where mortals scarcely dare to dance,
A place where memories tend to linger,
I ponder in my blank-stare trance,
The past, the present and the future,
Is there a meaning to it all?
Are dreams a substance to be nurtured,
Or merely dancing shadows on a wall?
Published: 4/5/2012
Bouquets and Brickbats