I almost start to wonder if my eyes
Are going; floaters, flashes in the mist:
Is this the moment when I realize
I don't see things that actually exist
But rather shapes that body from my mind
And in the minor fiction of their being
By falsehood and insanity defined
Mock me for my so far imperfect seeing
Which conjures their existence, and beguiles
My other senses into joining in,
Imagining a forest of meanwhiles
Where nothing but a void has ever been...
Or is this just the start of a snowfall
Whose flakes are barely visible at all?
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