Aug 292011

   Beyond the paper moon
        and past the plastic stars
   Lurks a lump or troubled wisp
        of what we really are.

   Behind the pantaloon, the canvas and the grease,
        beside the green stage door
   Lingers a loveable stranger
        whose tenor urges us to "more."

   Although the lights are out, are out
        and the set's gone burning down
   Still we ache to traipse the stage
        and immortalize the clown.

   The grave is but a keyhole
        and we ourselves the key
   That into clay or on to flame
        abide Eternity.

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