Concession is the lonely grant
To confront the meshed confusion
From which one fabricates illusion
To make life somehow relevant.
If the mind within the mind construes
To pick a rose, or a nose
Or, perhaps, resplendent clothes,
Consciousness cannot but choose
To conform to inside views.
Externalities can contradict
Entangling what to predict
With unexpected choices picked,
Catastrophes barely tricked.
The rat of this, the mouse of that
Menageries of what or whom
Swarms of misconceptions zoom
Of where a tit for tat may loom
So none can know where it’s at.