In the dark obscurities of nights,
When silence brings my existence a somber clarity,
I shrink into some corner and I think.
I think of truth, and I think of lie,
Nothing trembles me more than this candid tête-à-tête with myself,
But even after seeing through my soul, I don't die.
I think of belief, and I think of doubt,
I ruminate: a moment of belief may satiate the being momentarily,
But a mind housing a doubt has a stomach to bear a fallout.
I think of right, and I think of wrong,
Then a notion prevails, what is right and what is wrong?
I come to believe that none will matter, not for too long.
I think of life, and I think of death,
I reflect: surrendering the soul to nothingness may feel easy,
But the opposite comes priceless; the enchantment of breath.
I think of slumber dreams, and I think of the little reveries,
Can't tell which one is bonafide,
But the thought is consoling that they make memories.
I think of war, and I think of peace,
Why do we get content with the short-lived order at outside?
When the inside is never at ease.
I think of conscience, and I think of id,
Conscience often jolts once in awhile,
But the id always dances quietly somewhere amid.
I think of this perishing mind and the docile corpse dragging it,
I think of the wistful thought and the incognito self flaming it,
I think I think I think and I think,
Because...'I think, therefore I am'.
