1842, 2148

I tell you I long
to vanish into a year
where I am not myself —
1842, 2148, I do not care —
any year at all that holds out
a certainty of erasure, one in which
the person I am now
couldn’t possibly exist.

You ask how I cannot believe
in myself, in how I could be
a reincarnation of a past being
right now, and that if so
I was likely myself as I am now
back then; you don’t understand

how I cannot hope
that next week someone
will make a breakthrough
on immortality and I will indeed
remain myself far into the future.

You ask how I could deny myself
such possibilities. I lower my eyes.

I cannot look directly
into the face of someone
who dares to see me
as worthy of either.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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