There is a kind of distant sadness
In knowing what cannot be real
Even that sadness is hollow
Each written word
Evokes the emotions
Until everything falls away
Like old feathers for new
Even those are nothing
I can write the words
To make the play
… They just mean nothing now
As easily grasped
As fog
Moments spent
In visions unseeable
By any but ourselves
Better that way
To make them real is to beg
Beg for something
To bring the rest with you
Into the world of unreal
Leaving everyone hungry
As they were before The Play began
There is a distant kind of sorrow
In knowing nothing is real
That we can see with our eyes….

What Do You Think?

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