The old man is my old friend, Nemesis
he is not my father, nor my brother
exactly what he is is uncertain
older than stellar dust, he believes bliss
little does he know, comes from ignorance
decidedly, this dolt is the Other
mark my words, you can lower the curtain
as he snores through Carmina Burana
noticeably, he farts during the dance
if the mirror of language were applause
still, he would stand up and bow in response
my old friend, Nemesis, is not the cause
yet, he is not the man either, ensconce
old age in ageist terms, turn arcana
lightly over the green felt card table
decidedly, The Fool, his fate is sealed
friend or zero, my foe is my downfall
rise from the ashes, as I am able
imaginary bird, Phoenix, am I
even the clairvoyant, her blood congealed
not from the laying of the cards but small
decidedly, imperceptible sounds
Now is her house haunted or is my mind
eventually, in such decay, the tricks
my old friend, Nemesis, plays on my eyes
enter the mirror stage holding two bricks
such golden bars weigh nothing to the lies
inflicted by stardust in leaps and bounds
such is the burden found within a kiss
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