I look in the mirror and see my own face.

I look into my own eyes.

I realize that what I see is an illusion.

A mere reflection of reality.

But then I recall the old saying: Time flies.

And then I take a second look at what I see,

And I realize that in actuality,

The illusion is me.

Shakespeare, so beautiful with lingual grace,

Was real once; or so he seemed.

But he fell prey to the passing days.

I wonder, when he wrote that memorable phrase:

"Life is a walking shadow"--I wonder if he truly knew

That what he was writing was terribly, horribly, grievously true!

Of course he knew.

No one else ever knew more of what in this world is true.

Now he himself, as himself, has vanished, without a trace--

Or, as he would put it, he "left not a wrack behind"--

Which means not to leave so much as a little trace of cloud;

That is, of himself.

But he did leave such an immense and wonderful legacy!

And though even Shakespeare's words cannot last for eternity,

I hope too to leave behind some legacy,

More personal, much more of me,

Which I pour into my poetry.

Then something of me may live a while past my demise,

Though I know as I look into my own living eyes,

In this fragile reflective glass,

That I am seeing not only an illusion,

But the illusion of an illusion.

Einstein with Shakespeare had to agree.

Einstein said:

"Reality is an illusion, albeit a persistent one."

And Einstein also died.

It seems illusion, even reality, is not persistent enough.

=======================  
Written by Michael LP, aka MLP
aka PoetWithCancer, aka PWC, aka Mr. Poet
Written on Monday, March 31, 2009  11:21 am
Temperature: 60o   F.  Winds 1 MPH
Copyright © 2011 by Michael L.P.  All rights reserved