On the Verge
Yearning for what never was,
the fleeting fulfillment of fantasy,
I choose spiritual anorexia,
feed on fiction, fairy fruits
as insubstantial as cotton candy,
reject the wholesome truth.
I slumber, floating supine
on a murky pond, weightless,
erecting imaginary edifices
in empty sky for fancied family,
ignoring the weedy reality below.
Someone sensible
would destroy the delusions,
accept memory as history
and move on. But not me,
not now, stuck somewhere
between belief and denial,
trembling on the verge.