Allow me please to tell you who I am: 
A youth, a boy, a long-forgotten past, 
A bright young lover, brilliant in the eyes 
Of her; the she who sees beyond the mask 

Of quick indifference to all the world 
Demands of one with so much latent hope; 
I am a feeling and a moment caught — 
I am a thunderstorm, a quiet rain. 

Yet this, my view of me, can find no eyes 
With images that match the words I choose: 
I cannot shape the judgments that will form 
In minds of others, who may just use sight. 

For what is my identity but this: 
The shortest distance between fact and rest, 
Opinions cease when category’s reached, 
And one need not walk on beyond one’s legs. 

  Yet though world, age, and weather shapes this face, 
  This isn’t me, within my heart’s cocoon.