That

That real bed and that real room

Are as real as that unreal tomb

You will never see.   All unreal.

Life then Death and what you feel

Is what is always really real.

I knew a man who could have lived, but then

He shot himself and I remember when

His brother told me he, himself, felt dead.

"He killed us," is what his brother said.

Finished his drink and then went home to bed.

 

The archduke rose and smiled and left

The usual suspects felt bereft

And walked into the general snow

Wondering why he had to go.

The cats remained right near his chair

And didn't really seem to care

But that is simply feline seeming

They sat and dreamed and kept on dreaming

Of something we can never know

Bereft and left in the general snow.