a thought

a poem I wrote.

in the dusk of the evening
I lie in my bed, my thoughts
as they twist, take on a new nature
one which, when reflected upon,
I presume to be mistaken.
How though, might my own
Thoughts deem themselves
to be what they are or are not;
their existence itself depends
wholly upon their own
willingness to believe it; yet
I
would
have
it
no
other
way.