Reality's Question

many hours tick the clock
as minutes pass and birds chirp
lying on a table, erebus wallows:
what is real? and what is not?
does it or matter? or does it not?

my days upon this table he thinks
what a fitting simile
to indulge here from night to night
after a momentary blessing and cheering
to what is right and what is just
in our self-righteous rituals,
where did it go - the hours ticking?
and the birds - are they still chirping?

have you felt it?
does your heart go icy
from time to time leaving you
wondering what went wrong?

my heart has felt it -
but it is no proud soldier
to display its hurt
it withers away screaming at time
for taking its moments and putting
them away

my heart has felt it -
it has climbed mountains only to climb back down
it has seen the opera only to drown out the sound
the rubix cube turns
and when the colors align
is it real? or is it fake?
does it matter? what will it take?

the nighttime glows a pale yellow
running itself through my veins
moved along by the slow beating of
an old friend standing with a cane
displaying his pain, but he is no war hero

is it real?
to feel this way? is it real?
and if it is - what does it
matter - what can it do - why
does it speak to me - and you,
who are you knocking at my door
in the middle of the night
with a lantern for light, did you
think you could illuminate
the darkest night?
my friend, just tell me,
is it real? or is it fake?