Imagine for a moment it’s true –

that we’re the real thing, me and you;

that there’s no secret valley

where the chosen few dally,

sequestered from public view.


That this daily hard grind is the magic,

that there’s nothing conclusively tragic

about troubled white nights

with a feeling the fight’s

emotionally haemorrhagic.


That happiness isn’t a matter

puzzling Providence chooses to scatter

on starred lives from their start

but can play a small part

in a storyline stoically flatter.


What then? Would we peer at each other

and in our drained faces discover

a bonding so deep

that we’d break down and weep

with delight at not being A. Another?


Or in fact have we failed to become

the obtainable optimum?

Look around – can you tell

if we’ve opted for Hell

or strolled into Elysium?



First published in Snakeskin