From Your Seat On My Couch

We speak,
words which seem to have meaning,
concepts.
Mental representations of,
abstract objects.
Red, which is common to
apples, cherries and blood,
and all bachelors are unmarried.
You can see that it's true just lying on your couch.

Yet isn't it all made up?
Don't we weave,
concoctions,
of energy and light?
Yet, unconcious,
we believe them,
as if apples, cherries, bachelors
and blood
are real from where we sit on our couch

The illusion of form.
I sit at a desk,
writing.
An invention of matter and life,
a play,
where apples, cherries and blood
are bachelors
and red will never marry
while you sit and watch from your seat on my couch.