Am I just a name? Or just me what they see?
Or a stranger to the way they know?
Am I just what seemingly I am—in life and beyond?
Or just a few footprints on my walk
On a path lost forever in a meadow unknown?
Am I a soul, far away from life’s roll—
Stuck onto a changeless boll—
Like an unnamed flower in an unknown knoll?
Or a path never walked before, yet awaiting,
Or a dream forsaken in dreamer’s eyes, yet shining,
Or a trampled hope in a frozen cell, yet undying?
Maybe there is a beauty—a beauty forever—
In being a stranger to the way they know
Or to me or to what seemingly I am.
Am I just a few senses that paint me as I am,
Of unchained thoughts of defeats and scars,
Of motion stalled and stymied wars,
Of glorious triumphs and crowned stars?
Or are they just what I lose, one by one,
In becoming a stranger to what they see in me—
To me or what seemingly I am.
Perhaps, there is a beauty—a beauty forever—
Of knowing the way I become a stranger to me
Of becoming a stranger to the way I know myself
Of refining an image of being a stranger within—
To myself indeed—or the way they see,
Or what seemingly I am—in life and beyond.