Fictional Friends

Veracity is endangered

In the world of human reality.

Take note…

Fictional entities are only what they are

Not what they think we want them to be.

Stories do not knock.
They arrive.
Unfolding themselves like old friends
who never needed introductions.
A poet’s writings do not flatter,
they listen,
and in their silence,
they speak more truth
than the flesh-and-blood masquerade
that parades through daily life
with smiles stitched from hunger and thirst.

Reality’s friends,
 often actors in a play
where the script demands
attention, validation,
a spotlight,

 barter kindness
for applause,
and leave when the curtain falls.

But the page…

The page never asks for anything
but your eyes,
your breath,
your time.
It gives back without needing to be seen.

Nature, too,
is a friend without pretense.
The tree does not pretend to be a vine.
The rose does not envy the cedar.
The seasons do not apologize,

For their time off to recharge and rest.
They give what is needed,
shade, bloom, decay, renewal,
never what is wanted
by the fickle heart of man.

And so…

As years gather like fallen leaves,
and your favorite room grows quieter,
the stories remain.
The poems stay.
They do not age,
 forget,
or leave.

For the elderly…

Fictional friends
may be all that’s left,
but they are enough.
They are honest.
They are here with nothing better to do

than remain your best friends.