Nothing exists outside of me
For all the world’s my fantasy —
Thus, “reality” is but a lark
In which I’ve set my fancy free
To fill this void & endless dark
With worlds that have no words for cark,
Or care, or woe, or misery.
And yet, at times, these dreams turn sour,
Commuting with nightmarish power
To stain themselves most bloodily . . .
Which sets this stalwart soul to cower —
Though what else could these visions be
But nightmares of “reality”
Made of mere thought, once it’s turned dour?
For it can’t be that such exits(?!):
Hate-mongers, gangs, the clenching fists(?). . .
Trench-war, H-bombs, & poverty(?) . . .
Or religious fanatics, and old-racists(!?);
How else could such things come
to be Except in twisted fantasy,
Which lasts but while this mind exists?