Rodgers Roger
I have carried you through every season of my life,
Yet you remain the stranger I know best.
I bear your name like a heavy, golden crest;
I dance within your skin, smile through your cheeks,
And measure the world through the stride of your feet.
But in the quiet, I doubt if I have ever truly met you.
You are a house of many rooms, some dark, some bright.
A quiet introvert, huddled in the shadows of a thought,
Then suddenly a soaring extrovert, craving the light.
You are obnoxious in your boldness,
Yet your hands are the first to open in quiet generosity.
I revere the lion in your courageous spirit,
But I am driven to madness by the coward who hides behind it.
You are the monk who seeks the eternal,
And the merchant obsessed with the material.
You are the wit that sets the room ablaze with laughter,
And the silence that makes the air turn cold and boring.
I carry the weight of your frame,
I see the horizon through the lens of your wide eyes,
And I stand tall in your five-foot-eleven height—
But as I pose in your skin, I am lost in the search.
You are the loyal friend, the trustworthy anchor,
A man who loves with a passion that consumes.
Yet, within you lives the ghost who hates and segregates,
The saint who touches the heavens,
And the sinner who rots in the earth.
Who are you sir?
Who am I?
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