“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