Self

I have an identity... But I doubt it’s me. Cobbled together from bits and bobs, A congregation of smiles and nods, And relatives laughing and joking at odds With a suspect reflection that hints to be New. Vocal tones picked up from tune; Revolving circles, inviting clicks, Associations that follow with tick, Tock, Over, under, another poor trick, Like I’m the carving, still elusively hewn From bickering rock. Whilst even my train Of thought doesn’t run on time. Slowing down to pick up more crimes To reason, other passengers to mime On stirring repeat, across the anchored plain. The real question, then, we all must ask, Is are our fortunes so unique in mode, Us: works of art flogged by bar code? Standing jointly as evolving cliff-sides erode? Or should we just (through time) unmask, Endure our stormy strolling selves.