Five bedroom house, in estate
BMW, best of late
Cocktail wife, with breast inflate
Kids at play, on playmate
Mr. Jones, my best mate
Repossession of cars, on that date

A victim of my ego, I’ve become

Before dawn, on treadmill I run
Contracts, forecasts, reports my day begun
Sorry, I’ll be late, for supper ***
At home, after the sun
I promise, tomorrow, we’ll play my son

A victim of my ambition, I’ve become

Almost all, my hair turned grey
Its ulcers, that’s what the doctor say
My secretary, she led me astray
For another drink, I will stay
Tonight alone, in my house I lay

A victim of myself, I’ve become

When is the final round?
         Conception Semesters Birth
         Sit Crawl First step
         Crèche Primary Secondary
         Bachelors Honours Masters
         Junior Senior Manager
         Lust Love Family
         Unemployed Gainful Pension
         Plan Experience Memory  
                         ∞
When is the final round?
         Field Farm Fort
         Tack Gravel Tar road
         Rural Remote Urban
         Wood Rock Concrete jungle
         Developing Established Revitalization
         White Multi racial Black
         Conservative Liberal Decadent
         Pretoria Tshwane Tshwane Metro
                        ∞
When is the final round?
         Bushmen Dutch British
         Colony Union Republic
         Native Settlers Previously disadvantaged
         Undiscovered Developed Commercial
         Subsistence Commercial Corporation
         Oppressed Equal Masters
         Apartheid Democracy Socialistic rule
         Logical Confused Insane

Freedom of choice, can never be
Rather, a designed destiny

With
Accidents, default settings by design
Coincidences, planned occurrences in time
Surroundings, attracted by rhyme
Then what, is the influence of time?

A matrix known, to only a few
The rest a drift, never knew
Only filling gaps, for the few

Like sheep, alive in meadow
On man’s command, they go
Slaughter sheering feeding, they never know
So, do we really want them to row?

Do they want to row?

Do we actually harvest what we sow?
Or is it just, part of the flow?

These optical illusions
Create an optimal confusion
When eyes are a welcome intrusion
To the brain's inevitable conclusion

We stared into the mystic mirror
I witnessed everything I ever wanted in life
All you witnessed was just two people standing there
The transparency you cast upon me
Reminded me of how the plumes of **** smoke
Were never as thick as my problems
And as those clouds left my mouth and dispersed into the air
I saw your image
Preserved in briefness

It's a shame how my magician's mind
Summons smoke and mirrors
Nobody else believes me
But magic is the only way to explain you
The way you turned me invisible
Was spectacular
Your methods of sawing me in half
Certainly weren't natural
And your teleportation demonstration
Left me suspended in ice
So I guess I'm to Blaine
For the mirrors I erected
And the truth they reflected
Because now I'm lost
In what I refuse to call a funhouse
As I search frantically for some ancient tomb
That might reveal your brilliant incantations
Attempting to ignore the horrid revelation
That every spell I learned
Had been based in your arcane aura
And all the power I had gained
Had been based in your enchantment

I want a magician
Not an illusionist
So what does it mean when your illusions are so magical?

One morning at sunrise,
I walked the beach
Looking for shells.

High on the bank,
Where no wave could reach,
An old man watched intently.

After a while
He gestured with his hand,
Calling me to him.

"You have many lives to live,"
He said (in a strange accent)
As he picked up a handful of sand
And let it run back to the ground
Through his fingers.

"That's a lot of lives", I said,
Watching the last of it fall
And trying not to look afraid.

"Not the sand in my hand," he said,
"The sand on the beach."
He extended his arms,
Raised his eyes,
Then vanished
Before I could speak.