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?