Figment

is this the golden age,

wonders the paper tiger that fell

for a figment of his imagination

but reality crumbles upon his being

while he says, I guess I'm doing fine

and yet he cries lonesome tears

at the end of the day and

pens away his time with the

mantras of how

it's all in your mind

and how things will

get better round the bend

but he's already dead to the 

her or the him or the whomever else

underneath each new Sunday sun

and now he's a little one lost,

sitting on the side of the road

ruminating about his past self,

a ship in a bottle that only he

and her or him or whomever else

can see and truly relate to

and this is how the sea change happens,

with or without the being's permission

Reviews

[Joiedevivre]

this is so profound. We all deceive and soothe ourselves with platitudes as we go along life making ourselves up. ou have here expressed intricate concepts in a vibrant and penetrating way.

[Kenneth The Poet]

Thank you for the kind words.