They say we’re mapped out
That who we are is stored into
Every cell of us throughout our whole being
Like a library filled with the same book
Divided into 23 chapters 3.2 billion letters
A long and drawn out riddle
With no real solution
A murder mystery of sorts
Left to linger in our minds
Because while we know the victim
The murderer does not stand out
And our time with this book is short
As the pages readily decay
With no paper to match or restore.

And so we take it as no more than a tragedy
Having already memorized the climax
Working on the denouement
Hoping whoever else picks it up
Will find it a little more interesting
Than us who have lived it.

08/10/2012

Posted on 08/10/2012
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