Not that Descartes was wrong,
but thinking and being deviate.
The first, impossible without about
The second, a matter not up to me.
I did not think myself into existence,
but I can think myself out.
If I think about you, I am human.
If I love you, I am a slave to thought.
And the red balloon launches into flight
just before dawn raises her golden head
and sleep changes my thought to dreams.
Ah, to dream. There’s that nasty rub.