What is thought, only neural connections, transfer of impulse followed by conclusion? A journey in time, a pause, life's reflections; past reality lived or a rebirth of illusion. A thought commences, continues to fruition, potent, far reaching or a mere blip in time. Frivolous, quixotic; perhaps clothed in erudition, or nebulous, unfocused; naked yet sublime. As ideas emerge and the many concur, is thought then transformed to thing? Reality created as life's images occur, I think that I am; the universe a string. Take away the thought, do skies turn gray, oceans cease to ebb and rivers to flow? If no thought exists, does the world go away, stars above gone; no one left to know? Is creation a mere metamorphous of thought, our being in reality, mind made. Particles arranged and true essence sought, temporally formed, sadly destined to fade.