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to be ourselves or not to be at all

is this perhaps the question

we should be considering


bound as we are by silken threads

to this existence, blinded by its flame

reflecting web that trembles in the rising sun


think upon it, all eyes caught in this sticky world

each at the center of his own perception

burning our small lives away in candle years


while we watch the minutes pass in time’s deceit

this crouching monster beaked upon eight hairy legs

masticates our being in incremental bites


‘till we are part of him—all that remains

of wick and wax—flicker, smoke, odor, a stain

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© Johnmichael Simon



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