What I thought was glowing evening sun
Turns out to be a neon light come on too soon
And what imagination sees a gun
Where there is but a fine toothed hair comb?
The mind is waiting with a bunch of signs
To fit perceptions into ready truths
Though I’ve not seen a gun nor made designs
Nor used a nit comb since I was a youth
What we see is what will interact
What we desire,we love, or what we hate
From all the memories that are well packed
Into minds with independent states
And so we quarrel , murder, go to war
With those who look from different coloured doors
How my heart sings 