Life is real, but we feel the need to
buffer it into a dream. A dream we
think is real, but it is no more true
to real life than what the blind can see.
Life is simple, but we have a complex
for the complex. The achingly simple
that what is alive is all, does perplex
us to feel real life as dread pimple.
Life just is, but we, it into what is not
do recreate it. We think, we feel, and
to a fantasy is born, which is naught
to real life as water through a hand.
A pulse, a breath and all that we digest,
is the life real for which we are blest.