It is a cloak that I sit on, covering the ground.
A cloak that no-one else can step on,
And it seems to span for miles like that.
Except that from the way I see it;
It ends a bare few inches away,
And it is sown rags,
And the torn edges are the end of my reality.
When I get lonely,
I cannot even pull it up to warm me
Because I am sitting in the middle.
Elsewhere, the ground seems real enough,
But from experience I know that it isn't.
Ahh, but my back hurts from all this sitting.
But there isn't room enough,
And there isn't warmth enough,
And I might die here
                With my back aching.