I thought I knew the brick-and-mortar world,
the thrill of smashing things one knew were real.
But all that smashed was an electric feel
projected in a subject, fetal curled.
We loved the anthems sung and flags unfurled,
and plays of spear-tips raised and flashing steel,
and when throughout the town a bell would peal,
inviting us to dream our afterworld.
Feeling oneself at gates adorned in pearls,
as we got measured against an ideal,
and blood was drawn to test for ardent zeal.
My name in Santa's lists of boys and girls?
There are worlds that feel more real than others,
and those I'd choose, if I had my druthers.
