|04-10-2004, 12:45 PM||#1|
Join Date: Nov 2003
Location: Toronto, Canada
Local Time: 04:14 PM
I marvel at those
Who have discovered their past lives.
These erstwhile trysts unfailingly reveal
To the slack jawed and curious
That in their past lives
They were figures of distinction,
Of untold bravery and certain emminence.
On the part of one whose purse is lined
By procuring for the customer
A New Age Walter Mitty-esque
Claim to fame,
Well, former fame,
Alleged former fame at that,
Like Plato's copy of the copy of
The copy to the nanocopy twice removed,
But an Ideal Bed nonetheless
So no matter.
Were none of these past life
Ever paupers, petty thieves or common whores?
Yet how many among them
Have we Joans of Arc, Abe Lincolns,
A Mona Lisa perhaps, why darling that
Explains your enigmatic smile, I noticed
It when you first walked through the door.
Dozens of kings and noblemen,
Cleopatras without number,
Yet a scarcity of knaves, peasants, and jesters,
Stoop shouldered scullery maids
Or a mad beggar at the gate.
It is escapism on a cosmic level,
A mystical elevation
Springing from the inevitable
Tension of our reality,
An attempt perhaps to live vicariously,
To compensate for that which we lack,
Foolish, sincere, exploited...and yet...
I cannot help myself,
Who is to say what is real,
What is impossible, what is simply
Beyond our comprehension,
What is ultimate truth.
Surely in my past life I must have been
One helluva cynic.
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