Sweet illusion paints a skin
Upon a canvas blank and cold.
A warmth of pigment bleeding in.
The season’s growing old.
I’ve seen it all before:
What I’ve not yet become.
I’ve been here once before,
Becoming what I’ve done.
Sweet unease surrounds the scene
Inside a person sick and tired
Of the absurd and the obscene.
The moment soon expires.
I’ve seen it all before:
The things I’ve not yet done.
I’ve been here once before,
Being what I’ve become.
Sweet illusion paints a skin
Upon a canvas worn and old.
A cloud of pigment washing in.
The weather’s growing cold.
I’ve seen it all before:
what I failed to become.
I’ve been here once before,
Forgetting what I’ve done.
Sweet unease surrounds the scene
Inside a person near expired,
And the absurd and the obscene
Leave promise lonely, sick and tired.
Sweet illusion’s painted skin
Upon that canvas blank and cold
Is torn away, collapsing in,
Like the seasons, growing old.
Author notes
This poem is about existentialism (cf. Jean Paul Sartre et al): there is no human 'essence', our nature is not determined by anything (genes, childhood, society), we have the ultimate free will and our very personalities, in fact, amount to the sum of our choices and actions. Thus the 'self' as most people conceive of it, as a determining nature or causal influence, is in fact more effect than cause and more illusion than reality; the solace of the weak who cannot accept the ultimate responsibility of being completely free.
The poem itself is an account of a life.
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