Maybe I'm not a spectacle.
There's nothing here that is amazing, or astounding:
I am not the best or brightest,
Neither the strongest, the fastest, nor best to look at.
Maybe this is not a historically significant place --
Nor a place of current interest or intrigue --
Not just the right thing
At just the right time.
In a world and an age full of grabbing,
Whether of attention, or hair, or opportunity, or money,
I am a being of releasing:
Of letting go, of setting free.
None may stop to view such a lack of drama,
Indeed, I scarcely pay it much mind, myself --
Maybe I'm neither all I think I am,
Nor as little as I fear I've done.
Maybe I'm not a spectacle,
But I can honestly be what I genuinely am:
Used, homely, full of purpose, faulty of execution,
Closer to the dust than to the cradle.
For I am neither angel nor demon:
A digital bard from an age of paper coupons,
A song no one listens to anymore
Although there are forty-five hundred versions available.
There is a genuine you of sinew and heartbeat,
There is an actual me of skin and breath,
But without the right dash of cavalcade,
Do we qualify for real existence?
