I used to think
it took someone else
to love me enough
to make me Real
velveteen rabbit-like

when they weren't here
or there
could not be found
nearly anywhere
my candle sputtered
spit, flickered

and puttered out
leaving only the
grayest spiral
twirling haze
rising thinly
toward the great beyond

if there were
not eyes to see me
or arms to hold
or hands to hurt
or someone who knew better
to show me the way
how could I exist?

yet now -
with age and history
I finally feel,
begin to see

that I've reframed
myself, there upon
that oft mended wall
marred, with cracks
repaired and peeling
plaster painted
over

I've reinvented
being Real

it no longer
matters
who sees, or how
or when or why or where
if they can hold me
or not
if they can let
me be Real to them

no, it only matters
that I am Real
to myself
in an imaginary landscape
where we all wander
in search of a clue

I am the most Real
thing I know

Perhaps that is
egotism, or just perhaps
it is finding the universe
within, rather than without

either way
I know
and no one can
take away, mar or
destroy that
knowingness

In the end
there is only me
and that me is
as immutable
as any other firmament

12/10/2007

Posted on 12/10/2007
Copyright © 2025 Gira Bryant