Things, just things, a pile of stuff,
A heap of junk, a cosmic bluff.
We give them meaning, shape their worth,
Decide if they’re heaven or earth.

A rock, a stone, a piece of glass,
A worthless object, a useless mass.
But in our minds, they take a form,
A symbol of a storm or storm.

A book, a pen, a piece of art,
A treasure trove, a work of heart.
We cherish them, we hold them dear,
And make them everything we fear.

So let us look at things anew,
And see them as they really do.
Just objects, nothing more, nothing less,
A universe of emptiness.