This poem was written by Cybeast.

What Is a Man?
By Cybeast

A man is not a set of organs
Heart, lungs, bones, muscles
Nor is he, despite Drac’s moanings,
A miserable pile of secrets.
He is but a fleeting fancy
On a universe larger
Than any one member
Can truly perceive
A fancy with fancies of its own,
Little doorways into other worlds
Worlds of and not of ours.
We call these worlds fiction, not real, an escape.
But perhaps the same is said of our world.
In other worlds, by other men,
Who follow us from birth ’til death.
And as we draw our final breath,
They close the book, and say, “The End.”