There is a comic version of your life,
the way you fumbled through Aisle 2.
There is tragic version,
those things he did to you.
It is glorious and gilded,
would say the Apostles,
each breath a cosmic thread.
It is mundane and pointless,
as written by Camus.
In a scene today,
you reflect upon a line,
you'll have forgotten to take the time.
Famous and gifted players,
as if doing favors,
drift in and out of view.
Strangers fill in here and there to make things rhyme.
"Life", you type furiously,
But then you realize you had been daydreaming,
through two whole paragraphs.
"I don't read the reviews", someone once said to you.
"Thanks, I'll take that under advisement",
you say as you watch the falling rain make the ink run.
There is aversion of your life that no one will read,
written in an alien tongue by a castaway on a desert planet,
orbiting a star of one,
a star not unlike the sun.