Life As A Circle

There is a place Where ideas come from And you cannot know for sure When you are actually there Because all is imaginary in relation To that which is already in existence Or else, it is a copy Of what someone else Has brought back to us before... Pure truth has no existence, Being beyond within The garden of originality, Where all sorts of unearthy things Are really grown And some are plucked by the living- The explorers, who like these things, Have been transformed in this world From the dust of another... Love is grown among these wonders, So, maybe love is an idea of truth And maybe true ideas are love, too, That strengthen the more they are used, materializing each second clearer, Certain, yet, vanishing undetected Into dust again When there is no belief To keep them from returning again... ©All Rights Reserved-2011