There is a thin line between reality and imagination.
Whatever occurs within an imagination cannot be considered real.
But what is real and what is listed as “otherwise?”
And who are you to define such?

For in my reality, there are cats that walk along the rooftops,
small black cats mewing for more pastry snacks,
pawing at the windows to come inside from the hot, summer sun.
That same sun beats down on a distressed young boy,
crying in the midst of a street with blackened eyes and bloody lips,
and sneakers that are engulfed in flames.
Along that same street is a farmer,
desperately clawing at the ground with his dirtied fingernails,
aiming to plant the seeds of faith in this God-forsaken city.
Because within this city there is a sense of normalcy,
a figment of someone’s imagination that determines
what is normal and what is just plain daft.
That same imagination of that same someone fights every night to sleep,
kicking and screaming to finally rest,
from a day’s work in his brain's own Hell.

Am I crazy to believe this is real?
Has my imagination gone wild?
Or is the sick man’s imagination his reality?