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Snapshot of Existence

The author’s voice
It carries on
Long after he is gone.
Ideas become immortal,
While times keeps passing on.
Am I part of these ideas?
Or are they part of me?
Am I acting out the life he wrote?
Or is it acting out on me?
All these synthesizing books,
A big part of my day,
Consumed by inner visions that
I have along the way.
No one’s known until he’s dead;
It’s then he stops becoming,
Remaining trapped in what he’s said,
A label for his something.
His page the only distance,
A class for what his did,
Snapshot of his existence,
Revealing all he hid.

(thx, Aram Ohanian)

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