Reality.

Out there, beyond these walls, lies a world that is very real,
And it takes its toll on all of us and grants us no appeal,
But however imperfect it may be,
I realize there's no world for me,
Without flesh or blood to bind me to it,
I find other worlds are too surreal.

Because in the end, what we've got is here,
What's there is not, to be quite clear,
The whimsical wonders that live in your ear,
Have no bearing on the real world, or so you fear.

There's no reason for these other worlds, in which we hide,
They lack an anchor, and pass like the tide,
Nothing in them really matters,
It's all in your head,
And when it's left in tatters,
There will be no march for the dead,
If you could say that data has died.

So pick that book up off the shelf,
There's so much more to life than to let it rot,
Or the words of some imaginary elf,
Whose words and person appear on the spot,
But I can't force it, it must come with time,
And regardless, if it comes or not,
The world out there is not sub-prime,
If anything it's all divine,
Purely sublime.

Don't let it suck your life away,
Every hour, every day,
Spent away from oneself is just a waste,
But maybe it's just me,
Who has this epiphany,
And rids himself of this with great haste.

What once was fantasy is now a fallacy,
There's nothing in the valley, can't you see,
The green is not a color but a rendered preset face,
And there's no cheese at the end of this rat race,
There's only the drive to keep you coming back for more,
So, if I may be so bold,
And go against what I am told,
I am suddenly inspired to inquire,
What is it really all for?

The Murderer's Adage.

Until dark closes in
I shall not begin
Scouring the streets for prey.
But once it is dark
I'll quickly embark
And take some life today.

There's just too much noise
Too many little boys
Who run in the streets with glee.
And I'll show them their error
With my reign of terror
Until all that is left here is me.

All I see is waste
But once I taste
The hunt it is never too late.
And once I am back
From my midnight attack
I'll leave it to them to create.

And when they lift the casket
The parents a basket
Case for the child they've lost.
And this hobby you see
Takes its toll on me
And my pleasure is not without cost.

You may call it disaster
But I will be the master
Of death, the controller of life.
And if I am not
Then I'm doomed to rot
After the damned return my strife.