Mind's Playhouse, you exhibit sundry acts,
Amusing man when he's within the care
Of comforting repose. He interacts
With objects, lives, and scenes that you prepare.
All say your passion's weak for those whose bond
With quietude's cohesive. Is it true?
However, brains that are immensely fond
Of constant thought-athletics submit to 
Your drama during sleep. That is not bad,
But do your false portrayals not seem real?
A small cut leaves one screaming; turns him mad.
Or worse, a thing of hope that makes one feel
Like he has found life's trouble-ending key;
At dawn, he's in the same old misery.