Poem: Adding up Naughts

Between the here and now there is a place unguarded by suspicion
where dreams are true, and no one's blue, and they don't charge admission,
but there's a secret I won't tell—as terrible as Hell—
We dream away the silent day under a premonition
that dragons, ogres, ducks, and bats are all imagination
that nothing's real within this world besides multiplication,
but adding up a list of naughts will always get you naught.
I think I slipped and told the truth within this sad oration.