As if
The mind
Were idle fascination,
Full of dreams,
Full of inconsiquencial
Speculation
And non-participation
In the formation
Of the physical world.

As if
Our behaviour
Were cut loose,
Let loose
Unrestricted,
To roam free
Upon the earth
Without ownership
To count
The scores
Of futures conceived.

As if
We were vagrants
Who’s vagrant belief
Were not owned
In the body
But put out
To all visible peers
In blames
Savage hand
And life’s
Absent redundancy.

As if
The mind
Were not
Conceiving machine,
Coating every idea
In touchable cloak,
Transmuting
Idea’s ethereal stream
From unseen secret
To the solid matter
Of the corporeal.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015