Somehow it seems fake.

“Real” is a cloaked juxtaposition.

Under the cloak,
sad masquerades as real—

and somehow
that makes sense
to everyone.

But I cannot reconcile it:

we cloak the word
and call it truth.

Living, I look around
and wonder with horror—

Where is the life?

What here
makes my heart flutter?

Instead, I see wrought creations
and false conquests.

The shambling amalgamation
called “Real Life”
leers at me.

And for the first time
I think—

RUN!

I move through this world
and nothing moves me.

I watch them compete
and scheme,
but rarely cooperate.

They chase
manufactured, mass-marketed glory
and mistake possession
for conquest.

They mistake control
for having conquered life.

But our hearts
will not be conquered.

Limits and logic
are poor defenses
against the heart.

Nature cannot be conquered.

She tolerates only time.

They say,

“Get real.”

And I wonder—

is life masquerading too?

Dare I lift the visage
and reveal the truth?

They trade life
for safety,

and call sadness
real.

Now, as I look at the creature before me,
its cloak and visage
cast to the ground,

I see the horror
at last—

“Real Life”
was never real at all.

It was only—

Sad Safety.