I walked across a gravel path
towards a stagnant pond,
where goldfish swam in circling track,
and stared into Beyond.

Is consciousness a morbid game
to earn ourselves an edge
in gathering up nutrients -
whilst barring sorrows' ledge?

Am I then just a pantomime
of instincts clothed in flesh?
And is love thus an illusion -
the wiring of the mesh?

Bothered by my lonely curse
I quested at the sky:
-"Is truly nothing ever free?
If so, indeed, am I?"

-"Are we born into illusion
that tells us minds are free
and if so can there be ever
a you, an us or we?"

I shrugged and saw my effigy
breaking instrospection.
I wondered, troubled, what moved first
me or my reflection?