Reality ceases to be
Reality,
This flesh and blood,
The rough of the splintering wood
Beneath the cheap crumbling paint
Of a number two pencil.

Reality ceases to be
The softness,
Too soft,
Of this grey jacket
With the fuzzy innards.

It ceases to be
The leathery feel
Of my blackened wrist-band
For my banged-up wrist-watch,
The smooth hard of the
Desk upon which I oft
Have laid my head.

It ceases to be
The cold of the blust'ry wind
Howling 'cross the trees,
The dark, damp, dismal grey
O'th clouds that crest our sky.

It ceases to be
All that I can see
Nigh on all I can hear,
For in this half-dreaméd state
In which I wake,
The intermittent sounds of life
Pertrueb upon the louder music
That permeates my dreams.

It remains solely
That which I can feel
Yet I feel numb,
Alone,
Cold and deadnéd as I ride
This night of death
Throughout the day,
Touch alone
The sense that grounds me,
Makes me see, if you will,
The great golden good
Of this here wood,
And by a wood to say
A world.