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.
