P.C. Scheponik

Gamescape

In the depth of night, when the moon has risen
to her greatest height, when the stars have faded
to pinpoints of light, I sometimes feel as if my life 
is not real. The past seems distant as a dream.
The present seems like a take in a scene where I am 
just an extra who walks across the stage on cue —
no dialogue, no interaction with the stars of the show —
just a few silent footsteps, all I am ever meant to do.
The future spooled on the cutting room floor, my life, 
a jumbled limbo and nothing more.
Maybe I am just an avatar in some cosmic video game,
bits and bytes of data, occupying space, having weight,
consigned to a level of virtual state, to be turned on and 
off in a game that plays itself.
Once I asked someone else if he felt the same, but the only 
response I got was a look like I was insane. So I keep these 
feelings to myself, consign them to the page whenever I need 
to quell the angst I feel about not being real, about being a mere 
construct in a virtual field powered by stars who are all more real
than I will ever be.

P.C. Scheponik is a lifelong poet who lives with his wife and their shizon. His writing celebrates nature, the human condition, and the metaphysical mysteries of life. He has published six collections of poems. His work has also appeared in numerous literary journals. He is a 2019 Pushcart Prize nominee.