Who would you have been
living then in the collosal shadow
of this partitioned present perfection -- 
the  marionette miniature performance
applauded continuously
from inside the constricted circle
you've drawn with precision
around your shrinking life?

Is it not good that it is not ours
to choose, that we've but one heart
to lose in loving another rigid with remorse,
set against improvisation and stuck
in the groove of repetition,
practicing acts of trite contrition,
ever bowing to those bent
on consumption of the real,
dark masters of illusion?

Can we not rise above the roles,
reverse the fall of crumbling columns
and bare-fisted kill the pretender,
that maned predator Time
intent on tearing us in two
from truth born free and wild
in that golden expanse
of yesterday's field?

Stretches now pointed ray
across these futures we've embraced.
A gong of decision every moment --
oh, tarry no more on your stage!
Light fades and succumbs
to curtained hope. I am
reduced to an audience
of one not interested
in play anymore.