What Is Really Real?

To love, truly love; to be loved, truly loved…

A hopeless romantic’s wet dream, their coup de gras.

Grasping futility, deathly grip tightening noose of solitary night.

Touching hearts, leaving marks, marks of conscious apparent…

Not seen but felt in dead of night, that lunar moment 

That restless night, the queer knowing that you cannot know

Cannot fathom, though what is felt is real, real as hand to face

Facepalm moments when shared by most, shunned to silent reverie 

The bright stars, the artists, the shining lights… Their calling is nigh

The reason to be is resolute in knowing that expression is all that is real.

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