On the stage
The subject lived
In an hypnotic spell
Believing he was a king.
When snapped out
And brought back
He double-checked
Half joking, half doubting,
“This is real, right?”

The glow of love fleed
When she overheard
The gold-digger giggling
At his well-hooked bait.
She looked back
At the wonderful time
Filled with happiness
On her part, that is.
And wondered, shocked,
“Was anything real?”

Memory by memory
Was given new meaning.
His brother had displaced him
From his mother’s breast.
His father had dangled toys
To distract from his bigamy.
His rival felt akin
His hero felt a fraud.
Disoriented, he asked his shrink,
“And about now, what is real?”

Petrified by the guarantees of sin
Lured by the assurances of rituals
An identity stamped at birth
And sealed by the need to belong.
Finally, she began
When secure and matured
To look for herself.
And sighed in despair,
“Where is real?”

Yesterday so real
Today so false.

Yesterday seems inevitable.
As a prelude to today.

So, today’s real?

Where change is
The only constant
Only the quest for real
Is real.

The rest is comforting
Necessary, inevitable.


Not real.