“What is Real”
 





He’s still in bed, telling his famous tales.





When I open those doors, he’ll grin that grin.





He’ll bid me forward, I’d grip his coattail,





Then he’d rub his chin, his story’d begin:
 





“It is hard to accept what seems askew,





Sometimes we’ll believe it’s life that mocks us.





We believe illusions to continue





To live in life immortal and ageless.”
 





From my room I don’t hear his painful cries





He’s still breathing, still healthy and alive.





His life burns out and it’s this I deny





His marker reads: “If Life should mock you, strive.”
 





We invent our own tales to live blindly





‘Til it’s vague what’s false, what’s reality