Reality and Truth

My mind is like a haunted hostel room,

re-bunked after the murder of its hosts

with beds as hard as slabs set in a tomb

where lie the gods of gaps and holy ghosts.

Although I lock the doors, I draw the shades.

Like odors, they waft in and out of cracks.

A dank religiosity pervades

the halls, that cannot be dispelled by facts.

“If I could face the truth, they’d go away,”

I tell myself, to have someone to blame.

My demon taps my writing-hand to say,

“Reality and truth are not the same.”

Does that have meaning? Is it in my head?

Were those words truer, which she had not said?