The Perfect Life

I have a perfect life. It isn't much,   

But it's enough for me. It keeps me alive   

And happy in a vague way: no disappointments   

On the near horizon, no pangs of doubt;   

Looking forward in anticipation, looking back   

In satisfaction at the conclusion of each day.   

I heed the promptings of my inner voice,   

And what I hear is comforting, full of reassurance   

For my own powers and innate superiority—the fake   

Security of someone in the grip of a delusion,   

In denial, climbing ever taller towers   

Like a tiny tyrant looking on his little kingdom   

With a secret smile, while all the while

Time lies in wait. And what feels ample now   

Turns colorless and cold, and what seems beautiful

And strong becomes an object of indifference   

Reaching out to no one, as later middle age   

Turns old, and the strength is gone.   

Right now the moments yield to me sweet   

Feelings of contentment, but the human   

Dies, and what I take for granted bears a name

To be forgotten soon, as the things I know   

Turn into unfamiliar faces   

In a strange room, leaving merely   

A blank space, like a hole left in the wake   

Of a perfect life, which closes over.