Is this real?
What is reality, anyway?
How can the ordinary,
the mundane and
meaningless,
be real, when it has no
imprint on my soul?
The cotton candy clouds
are real; the rippling green
leaves and the sound of
a true laugh,
and so are all the curious creatures
made not of dull
proof, but of bright faith,
and sweet memories and deep
dreams are real when
they squeeze my heart,
and art and music that
speaks to me,
beauty to all five
senses -
and people, the love we feel
for one another
those nameless, wordless
sensations
are real
and I’m not sure
the rest
exists.