Experience feels like wandering in a desert
Seeing a mirage of water among the sands
Only to find myself grasping a fistful of grains
And watching even those slip away from my hands
My dreams feel as real as my reality
For in both I live, breathe and feel
And those seem as true as my fantasies
Which allow me to escape and let myself heal.
If all are real, I wonder which one is legitimate
For none of my worlds function as I plan
I have equal power in all
There is nothing I can do, and everything I can.
The truth is as evasive from one to the next
I can’t seem to firmly separate right from wrong in any
There are so many shades that my eyes burn
I need to analyze the angles, and there are so many!
I see myself crashing, smashing the glass
Flailing my arms, screaming to the sky
As I search for answers and ask God why
I am cursed with obsession to find where they lie.
Why do I feel that my fantasies are real?
Why do those dreamlike woods seem so known?
If I woke up from a day spent, did it ever happen?
Do sheets of morality exist, or are they by humans sown?
Reality is what we experience, some say
But we experience much more than reality each day
I wish so desperately to understand this “more”
Before my ashes are sent off the shore.