Is life a dream of consciousness
Of entities up high?
Who go to sleep when we’re awake
Then rise when bedtime’s nigh?
If so, we’re mere illusions
Of brains that aren’t our own
And what we call existence
Comes from their thoughts alone
That makes us puppets, everyone
We dance, we sing, we love
Because of neural firing
In super brains above
What can we do? Can we escape?
And then spring into being?
Or are we mental prisoners
Of what those brains are dreaming?
I do not know the answer, but
I am most disinclined
To be a dream of consciousness
In someone else’s mind
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