mere imitations

we're all just mere imitations in a play of life,

what if the stage lights go out in the strife?

I can smell the smoke and hear the knife,

a mile away from a damaged and shattered rife.

we're different in medium, object, or mode,

but hung onto the sense of imitation,

where rhythm, harmony, and melody flowed,

we bow to the natural art's liberation.

we're the most imitating beings alive,

to coexist in mirrors we build and burn,

hanging on the stage with a thrive,

desperate to be let down, to cry and yearn.

we're characters either admirable or inferior,

dying to be the accused in someone else's play,

crying to be a victim in your own theatre,

mere words and actions strung on display.

we're starring in comedies or tragedies on the set,

sit still and watch or be watched by the rest,

mere bodies and voices in harmony and sweat,

you either jump or are pushed and it's all for the best.