We live in true illusions all our lives,
A world that active fantasy contrives
To make sense of events befalling us
And view as wonderful or ominous,
Taking our fate as hell- or heaven-sent,
According to our disposition’s bent.
Though we may fancy otherwise and think
All’s real, we can eclipse it with a wink
And, as we sleep, dream up another world,
For in our minds infinity lies furled.
It’s only custom keeps us as we are,
But over there—you see that door ajar?—
The costumes in that wardrobe wait for you:
Just try one on, walk through, and see what’s true.