Birthday Poem To Myself

  

Happy Birthday, Myself.

Seventy four years ago

suddenly, there you were.

It took most of that time to

figure out what was what.

It took time to see Myself

as the fabrication,

the amalgamation,

the simulacrum,

the artifice artifact

of the play

in which the truth is revealed

to be a mirage, dream, hallucination,

notwithstanding it had a birth

and will die.

 

So, Happy Birthday, Myself,

enjoy going along with the show

that must go on.