The Truman Show

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The Truman Show


True man, I know you keep

your secret hope—the one

that there’s a bubble sure to pop

one day, and all the glints and glimmers

sprinkle on your palm like dew

on a well-manicured lawn—locked

in your chest deep in the basement.


You knows it’s a fragile thing, liable

to snap like a ship’s mast

if you bring it up from the dark

for one more person to tell you, consolingly,

to keep it light. Sometimes at night


you stay awake, piecing together

ripped fragments of a face 

you can neither see nor forget, 

the one which will sail you to the edge

of the world, become a door,

and pull you into obscurity.


No more false fathers. This is love,

and out here the real thing

will hit you like a bus.


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