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The Perfect Man

by John Grey

Yes, you’re our invention.
We imagined you,
and now here you are.
You’re immortal,
but as a byproduct of
our wishing immortality for ourselves.

We panned for gold in the gene pool,
tossed the bad ones,
even the mediocre,
anything disease could get its grips on.

We were the curtains thrown back to reveal
the towering heights of human possibilities,
dazzling minds and bodies
born of Michelangelo and Einstein,
grace and style, no flaws,
utterly impermeable.

And yet here you are,
uncertain of your next move,
nothing to invent, now you’re the ultimate,
nothing to say, because we wouldn’t understand.

There’s an urge to love,
but your self-awareness extends
to an awareness of all others.
There’s nothing left to know of another.
And even ultimate beauty is not beauty to you.

You can’t be lonely,
because you’re beyond all loneliness.
You merely test the boundaries of the void.
Your brilliance centers
and finds, to your despair,
there are no boundaries.

You sit and wait for something to happen,
but only you can make it happen.
You look in a mirror.
Is that a tear in your enemy’s eye?

Copyright © 2014 by John Grey

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