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By Errol Strider

The ego,
standing up and preening
strutting around the stage…
in the mind,
waiting for laughs and applause,
like a comedian,,
the fool!

parading itself before spirited morticians,
not understanding the need to be humbled,
to be the fool,
with no applause,
just whips and scourging
and thorny wreaths around his head

smugly self-deceived,
basking in enfeebled acclaim
jaundiced reviews wending their way into oblivion–
an ignominious performance
attended only by critics
and jaded pedestrians
who stop long enough to gape and spit…

a defrocked, defunct comic
foolishly curled up
on the empty stage floor
with only the light of a rehearsal bulb
throwing his tears in shadows…

the ego,
a disrumpled has-been
sobbing on the splintered performance place
with echoes of canned laughter
scorching his brain

© 1990 Errol Strider