bounded in a nutshell

through seven apertures, the world peers in
these breaches in our heads let us see out
res cogitans needs inputs to begin
but none of it's secure beyond a doubt
phantasms posture as reality
we could be dreaming that we're butterflies
events that populate my memory
could be a flimsy fabric of half-lies
that "mind" is what "brain" does fails to explain
what consciousness is, or why it's so dear
and qualia like "red" or "joy" or "pain"
should be the same in your head as in here
the skull's a puny insubstantial shell
to circumscribe a Heaven, or a Hell