Fact or fantasy?

The day is, from the beginning, detached.
It does not connect.
Life is imagined.
The day is detached and unreal.
The stroking finger writes a tale on the misted window.
The trees wave their denuded branches in an unfelt breeze.
The day is always detached.
Imagination peoples the hours with faces.
Imagination peoples the hours with voices.
Imagination peoples the hours with friends.
The day is always detached.
Food is eaten and drinks and drunk.
The day is always detached.
If the day stays detached pain will not be felt.
Tears will not be shed.
Memories will cease to exist.
The day is, until its end, detached.

© 2ndwitch, 13/10/14