The Duplicate

He was born with face like a clear slate
At very outset, life taught him to imitate

His features were such, he could all replicate
Every nuance, every emotion, and thus placate

Friends and family, all delighted up to the brims
His personality superimposed with others’ whims

He was sad and hurt at his odd lot, at the initial outset
Caving in slowly, gracefully accepting all that life begot

Gradually his own true persona was relegated to the attic
His duplicate self strutted about in forefront, quite slick

Lost in various personas being enacted at the moment
He would delve at times, searching for lost self and lament

His quest came up empty handed, original self, long shredded
Sacrificed at the altar of the psuedo mammon he had wedded

In terms of worldly success the duplicate had it all and then some
But the constant faint throbbing heartache felt, made him glum

Having tasted prosperity and feeling world was his oyster
He now wished to make amends, and become his own master

He looked at the mirror and tried to find original lost self from fake
All he saw were shards of various personas come together in a mosaic

He screamed in pain and misery, realizing all that had glittered, was phony
It was too late to mend his life’s guitar n create his own original symphony
Your manuscript is both good and original; but the parts that are
good are not original, and the parts that are original are not good.
Samuel Johnson
1709-1784, British Author

What a strange vanity painting is; it attracts admiration by
resembling the original, we do not admire.
Blaise Pascal
1623-1662, French Scientist, Religious Philosopher

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