Friday, June 7, 2019

Ian Fletcher writes

The Beautiful People

How arrogant to surmise
we could glide through life
as if love could be sparked
between us with a glance
or that our pleasing faces
were windows to our souls
and passports to romance
beyond the wildest dreams
of those plainer than ourselves.

How we deluded each other
that it was the depths within
we were truly interested in
our love based on spirituality
beneath this shell of physicality.

Thus it was easy come easy go
while we partied our lives away
like there were no tomorrow
our bodies merely vessels
that carried the essences
of our true Platonic selves.

Yet tomorrow has finally come
and now weathered and worn
we look around and discover
that love is nowhere to be found.
Image result for hollow human paintings
Hollowman -- Charles Sabourin

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