Does this life emulate the one I seek?
Is there higher ground beyond that I speak?
Ply the path true, unaware that so close
A parallel aptitude exists, unexposed.

My game is the one that I was introduced,
My country, my culture, my name did induce;
What if I came as myself quite the same,
An alternate birthday, an alternate name,

If the god that I prayed was not of this sort,
Or the food that I eat, from different ground wrought.
Perhaps I'd fly higher than this chosen path
Or maybe have nothing compared to this craft.

The one that is chosen, by me or by fate
Predestined, decided, or determinate,
Cessation, succession or maybe delayed
Built into time cannot be replayed.

When I speak with the words that my pen did convey,
A vocal retreat held fame delayed.
Yet to my knowledge I just barked like a dog;
Through fame's door I walked and not jogged.

But who wants notoriety of such a sort?
Every action of life is more news to report.
When effort is needed, for your face, to conceal,
Insanity has overcome the ideal.

© Brad Bollard 1997