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...