Destined to be nothing of what
I truly wanted. But there is no
Want, to me – it all seems a
Mundane, though elaborate
Play. In which the actors are
In fact, unaware that they are
Acting.
Plato may ask why, and
Dylan may complain. But
They see the world in a
Light with no source. They
Thought what the men before them
Didn’t, and chose to ignore what
They did.
I roll through meadows,
Flowering groves of
Bright, orchids. They sing
But one song – the song
That only the elect can hear.
The song that speaks the truth
Of death.
We all sense it,
Though our hearts wilt at its thought.
The seed will be planted again;
The play will never stop.
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