Lying to myself

I stumbled into a village of gold and brick, The sound of life a chime to the homesick. There are gardens, a butcher, furnaces, Whose warmth seems to ward off the morning mist. Their smiles bloom under a rising sun, Their world sealed, their imagination gone. Looking closer-something’s not right, Their faces are bathed in a familiar light. I’ve wandered into a village where every face is mine, A secluded world, lost to time. Here they (or is it I?) work in lost abandon The hammer, the plough, the miller in unison. Toiling to the chime of an old church bell, Habits that create physical heaven, But mental hell. I ask them why they are here; They smile a joy so pure. They claim they've found a meaning true, And point to hills in the dusty hue. They warn, "Beyond these walls lies fear, A treacherous path; death is near. So, stay and bask in comfort’s mouth, For peace is what we've long sought out." But I could saw what they could not, Their joy, a scam my fear had bought. They were not me, though they wore my face Just echoes and doubts reflecting in a mental cage. The mind is cunning, a clever guide: Persuasive and manipulative, It builds illusions wherever uncertainty lies. Like a dog trainer, Feeding me “what if” after “what if” as we walk. But I see beyond this gilded veneer, This ancient, crumbling hamlet; Just a dead-end street in a dead-end world. I don’t want to stop here, In this fake, imaginary dreamworld.