“Reality” is the thing with a sharp edge

That cuts like that of a knife

And stings the skin without the blood

And leaves –an invisible scar-

And most biting – in the cold – is felt

And dark must be the sky -

That could cloud of the truth of life

And shroud us all in lies –

I’ve felt it in the quiet hours

And in the depths of sleep

Yet – never – in desperation

Did I ask it set me - free