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?