Imagine for a moment it’s true –
that we’re the real thing, me and you;
that there’s no secret valley
where the chosen few dally,
sequestered from public view.
That this daily hard grind is the magic,
that there’s nothing conclusively tragic
about troubled white nights
with a feeling the fight’s
That happiness isn’t a matter
puzzling Providence chooses to scatter
on starred lives from their start
but can play a small part
in a storyline stoically flatter.
What then? Would we peer at each other
and in our drained faces discover
a bonding so deep
that we’d break down and weep
with delight at not being A. Another?
Or in fact have we failed to become
the obtainable optimum?
Look around – can you tell
if we’ve opted for Hell
or strolled into Elysium?
If you have any comments on this poem, Tom Vaughan would be pleased
to hear from you.