Real Me
Shrouded in Sanskrit swatches of flesh
And brain matter bursts of persona,
Move or move not, cells boil on the skin
In a shape-shifting restless corona.
Wondering wiles scratch a deviant course
Down the labyrinthine lanes of deception,
Roles cast aside or adopted at will
In a gear change of altered perception.
What we think that we are, what other souls glean
And what we may actually be,
That we are three in the eyes of the world
Means as little as nothing to me.
I catch traces of things, memorial scents
Too elusive to grapple and hold,
I lose track of the gist, the moorings cut loose,
I'm the spy who stayed out in the cold.
Blinking in bastardised blurrings of mood
And eating dark dreams of unease,
Relent and resign, default to a day
When the real me steps forward, please...
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005
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