They shepherd us out each day to recite the creed
beneath a glaring, unnatural sun.
How we dream of absconding from the lives we lead!
We think we’re the dupes of a hidden master’s fun –
production of a final show but one.
Modulating to distant removes of the same
and soliciting us to strange, forbidding climes,
he keeps from us the knowledge of our fame
and levies fines for neglecting to speak in rhymes,
all to fulfill the genesis of his genius.
He would do better, or at least no worse,
to blacken the whites in the spaces between us
so that our universe would look like what it is,
to return us to the world we rehearse
and allow us to fancy we are its, not his.
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