When I attempted to speak
On my idea that everything’s a conspiracy
I was drowned out by the clique.
They insisted that my idea that no idea matters
Was conspiratorial and mad;
Agreeing with each other, they were only too glad
To echo each other, to shout me down.
I said we think it is a trick of light
To see the waning moon, or the sun going down,
Since the moon’s gradual decrease
In size and light, or the day’s cease,
Is not a real goodbye;
The moon is just as solid as she was before,
The sun just as brave and shining;
Nothing changes but ourselves,
And really, it is a trick of light
Only to our animal senses; the trick
Is only one of perspective, not light;
Nor is the change due to ourselves,
Nor does anything happen to ourselves;
This great display of changing light,
This great display of change itself,
Is a lie; everything is as it was before;
You—not as you—and it—not as it—
Makes it seem there’s less light than before,
Makes it seem somehow something is dying,
And none of you will love me anymore.