What is,is not,though it could be a line in someone's poetry
it's up to me
to open up my mind and see another unreality.

And if I do,will you come too,
to hold my hand?
or will I be a one man,one man band with one hand tied behind my back,with one eye on the one I lack and reading in between the lines,where train time tables read like fables as I wait,
in waiting rooms where madness grooms me,poetry looms up wild before me and someone else's unreality tries to muscle in on me,
and what is given freely,really has no equal in this world where nothing is as was,or if it ever was it is not now,but poetry somehow evens up the score.

The score being this,
'one for sorrow' borrow more,two for woods that trees long for,and three for unreality,such a chore to skip about and wonder what this life is for.

In rhyme or verse where one's no worse than I suppose that prose could be,once more the door opens to me and someone and his unreality,which is reality for some,
and some would say much realer than,the one eyed marching music man which I expect is what I am.